At the Edge of Voice
between silence and song
Already, I am looking—
at my son, eight years old,
his voice nearly stolen
by the noose that sought
his life and light.
I look again,
and wonder if the entertainer
will carry forward
the creative fire,
my love for the brightness
of the sun.
I look upon my father,
seventy-eight,
his voice dimmed by cancer,
that thief of breath and brilliance.
I look again,
and wonder if the orator
will pass down
his brilliance,
his love for the brightness
of his grandson.
Blue eyes, fresh as sky,
white-blond hair
flaring against
aged hazel,
silvered strands—
sunlight mirrored,
generation to generation.
And I stand here,
in the pause between—
not choosing,
not losing,
only holding both,
grateful
for another sunlit day
at the edge of voice.
About the Creator
Rebecca A Hyde Gonzales
I love to write. I have a deep love for words and language; a budding philologist (a late bloomer according to my father). I have been fascinated with the construction of sentences and how meaning is derived from the order of words.
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