Voiceless

I have forgotten the sound of her voice.

Having to bear that knowledge brings me more pain than I could ever verbally express. I have forgotten the sound of her voice. Oh, my God. How could this have happened? When did this happen? Ever since childhood, I knew I would never forget my Nonna. I would never, ever forget her. I would forever cherish her and keep her at the forefront of my heart and mind.

Whenever she became ill, I remained true to that summary. Even though now her voice is lost, I remember how I knew it well in the months following her passing. The years, even. As the grief faded, however, so did her voice. It was as if in order to endure the pain, I was going to be forced to let parts of her go.

I would never forget her face for as long as I lived. Never forget her gentle scolding and warm embraces. Her home. Our home. That house will be forever burned into my mind; its layout like a map to another world. A world long forgotten and left undisturbed.

Her voice was part of that world. It was something I can recall finding comfort in, but my Nonna's voice was not the most important thing about her. Even though it pains me to forget how she used to say 'I love you,' or 'Good morning,' or even my name, perhaps her voice is not required. There is no magical key that can break the lock and seal my mind has created around that hole of my childhood... nothing in this world can set her voice free... can bring it back to me.

But her voice is not required.

It never was.

My Nonna's love was so vast and deep that it could drown all of the hurt. All of the pain and suffering in the world. Her smile and beautiful face shone like the sun through the big, looming window in the dining room on those Sunday mornings, whenever the fragments of a broken family would gather and, for about an hour, we would forget we were ever at war.

The way she smelled offered me comfort then, and it certainly does, now. Her pure, vanilla aroma combining with the ever-present string of cigarette smoke was never something my brain was going to let go. How, even whenever she lost her hair, she remained resilient. So full of life. I could not comprehend her beauty then, and now that she is gone, I have no means of making sense of it, now.

I have forgotten the sound of her voice.

But I have not forgotten how deeply she loved. How brilliantly she welcomed us into her home. How divinely she held herself. How she lived so selflessly. I have not forgotten the things about her that made her the person she was. I have not forgotten my Nonna, but the small parts of her existence. The parts that had to be let go in order to move on from that pain. That consistent, overhanging grief. It was suffocating, and I wanted to be able to move on. To live my own life, even though she was never going to see me grow up. Never going to experience me going to college. Never going to see my art. My real pieces of art... the pieces that I put my heart and soul into trying to find my place in this big, crazy world. My Nonna was never going to watch me grow up, but I can only pray that she sees me. That she can still hear my voice, and understand just how much I love her. How much I want to be like her.

I have forgotten the sound of her voice.

I have not forgotten the years she gave me.

I have not forgotten her.