The Tape

It had been twenty years.

Late afternoon light

filtered through the filmy drapes

as my mother propped the stereo on the table

My Father’s voice.

How could I have forgotten?

Sitting in the church pews.

Bathing in the summer heat.

A hundred faces tilted toward heaven next to mine.

And my father,

Steaming in the pulpit.

His brow creased.

His head raised.

His kerchief poised.

Voice rolling through the rafters like thunder.

Every creak,

every groan,

every cough, sigh,

every baby's cry.

Hushed…

How could I have forgotten?

His voice,

laced with the bitter flavor of Virginia.

The way he lifted every word

only to lower it like a golden crown.

How his words echoed

seemingly on and on…

The tape stopped.

I searched for air.

It had been twenty years.

My mother,

her small dark hands

so familiar with a piano,

rested on the table.

They fluttered gently,

as if some soft veil lay between us

and on the other side,

my father.