A Mother’s Voice

Sometimes

I can’t remember her voice.

Most of the time.

I strain my ears

into my memory,

reaching all the way back –

back 16 years.

Sometimes

I can hear her.

It’s faint, but it’s there.

I laugh with her,

seeing her eyes crinkle

and watching her throw her head back,

and I hear her voice get louder.

Loud, uproarious laughter;

the kind that makes your belly ache

and shake and quake.

It gets louder and wilder

nearer

until it comes running

and jumps

into my arms.

My boys’ laughter,

filling my ears.

Filling my heart.

A mother’s voice,

reflected back

in her grandchildren’s laughter.

OK, I’m getting off my shoebox now.