the sound of his voice.
Many nights, his stories of New York, Europe, anthropology, mathematics, design, engineering, and attending UNC at Chapel Hill, lulled me to sleep.
It didn’t matter, really, what he spoke of, only that he spoke.
His voice was so distinct.
Deep.
Mysterious.
Mesmerizing.
Intoxicating.
But now, as I come upon the fifth anniversary of his death, I am totally discombulated and completely out of rhythm because I can’t remember it.
His voice.
I can’t remember it.
I’ve cried and prayed and prayed and cried.
To no avail.
I’ve never, before him, found anyone who could rationalize my irrational behavior and be cool and composed with tantrums and flying debris.
One would think that, after all he endured, I would, at the very least, remember the sound of his voice.
I remember other voices.
Ones of those who found me, after him and feigned tolerance only to, in the end, find me intolerable.
He truly was the only perfect man and it was my privilege to know him.
He remains, to this day, the most intelligent person I’ve ever known.
I still wonder why he picked me.
But he did and although perplexing, I’m a much better person for it.
How tortuous to hear other, less substantial voices in my head when I can’t remember his.
I’m sorry, my dear one.
I truly do miss you terribly.
Especially in Autumn; most especially in October.
If you look down tonight, you will see our moon.
I wept when I saw it … I couldn’t help it.
I will love and miss you until time ceases.
A Photographer's Heart 