I Lost My Son’s Voice
Published in Four Quarters to a Section 2010, SDSPS

 I was home, alone, on our farm, at night,
reading the news, when the back door opened.
A voice said “Anyone Home?”
and I jumped a little, wondering
who would just walk in at night,
no cars in the garage,
out in the country, miles from town?
It was my boy.

I lost my son’s voice somewhere between
September and his thirteenth birthday--
that high pitched yell for his brother and sister.
What kind of mother doesn’t recognize
her own son’s voice?
Doesn’t allow for changes, for maturing?
What kind of mother thinks
he’ll always be in eighth grade?

I lost my son’s voice.
What else of him have I already lost--
will I loose next?
What if I forgot his back, or where freckles are,
or where the broken collar bone can still be felt,
the exact texture of his hair, no matter what color it is.
What if there’s a test?
Can I pick out his laundry—blindfolded?
Maybe, yes. I know by the scatter pattern on the counter
which one made the mess.
I know by the throw of the letters
who brought in the mail.
I know who sat on the couch last
by the toss of cushions.
I know who’s asleep at home when I come in,
somehow. I lost his voice.
I didn’t recognize the sound.  
I was scared.