Not too long ago, my cell phone died. That message was saved on the cell phone. There was no getting it back. And so another piece of him died too. Again.
I still call home every so often, listening to my voice answer back where his once was. Thinking of what used to be. Wishing I had never changed the message. Longing just once more to hear him speak. I have his voice saved in other ways. Videos of him and Gavin. Voicemail messages. But that distant, impersonal answering machine message was the one I heard the most. Aside from the voice when he was standing next to me, its the one I miss the most. I carried it with me. I could listen to it whenever.
I still think of that lost recording, and sigh. But I don't need the message. His voice isn't really gone.
He's the voice of reason that echoes in my head. The angel - and devil - that sit on my shoulders. The second opinion when I don't know where to turn. The other end of the silent conversations on those long and lonely nights. He's the lullaby that sings me to sleep. The calming reassurance when I am afraid. The "you can do it" when I don't think I can. The "I love you" when I need to hear it most.
In my dreams - those wonderful fleeting dreams where he lives again - we speak to each other. His voice. Just as I remember. Just as I need.
And when I'm awake, every so often, if I listen hard enough, I can really hear him. Maybe its my imagination. Maybe its wishful thinking. I choose to believe its him. And I know he's still here.
They say the voice is the first thing the memory loses. The hardest to recall. I don't think it goes away. It just retreats inside you, buried by the constant bombardment of noises in the every day.
If you turn your mind inward, still your own inner voice, your own thoughts, and just let him speak, he's still talking. I can still hear him.
He's inside me.
And no phone error or hard drive failure is going to change that....
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