29 seconds are all I have left of my mom’s voice.
This recording is one I had saved in my voicemail for no other reason than
it was “cute” at the time.
She sings Happy Birthday on my 28th year, but she’ll never see my 29th.
I am certain every time I hear this that she is still alive.
Her voice will never become old and high pitched and remind me of apple pies like my Great Aunt Sue who is 91 now.
She won’t sing my children to sleep when they one day come. They will have no Grandma to play with, to make them feel special by baking cakes and taking them to Sunday ice cream (though… that part is for the best because she couldn’t cook a lick).
“You are my sunshine, my only sunshine,” she sang to me every night when I was little because I was her only and so she was mine.
She taught me how to sing, though she thought I had no natural talent as a singer.
The song that we knew was ours and would make us laugh to sing together was this one:
“See no one loves you more than me and no one ever will.”
She was beautiful, talented, and smart. She could have been a professional singer, a model, a doctor, but she got scared because she never thought she was good enough because she was the “darkest” kid in the family.
She was not perfect, but she was my hero, my mentor, my friend, and my mother.
I have 29 seconds of her voice. What I wouldn’t give for another 29 or another 29 years of it if I could.
I write her songs she will never hear.
I will keep writing her songs until I sing no longer, the time when I am no longer above the ground.
I save all voicemails now that I think are important like this from the people I love because I worry that tomorrow I might wake up and never hear their voice again.
Call someone and tell them you love them and maybe they’ll keep it for many years to remember you by.