Was there a lilt in her voice when she laughed?
Would she croon lullabies before I slept?
I can't hear her voice in her photographs -
those precious mementos where memory's kept.
I can see the playfulness in her smile,
her shapely legs crossed sitting on our swing,
her glow when my sister walked down the aisle,
but still, not a single photograph sings.
If her voice could cut through the still silence
of poses held motionless so many years,
would she whisper some long-lost confidence
she'd always intended for just my ears?
If photographs could only speak to me,
I wonder what my mother's words would be.
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Author Notes
I have posted a poem before on how important my father's voice was to me, but I have no memory of my mother's. She died when I had just turned eight, and while I have at least a handful of solid visual memories of her, her voice is lost to me forever. I would give a million dollars for a video tape with audio. My photographs of her and of us together are my most precious possessions, and I love those snapshots of us outside on the swingset, her in her shorts and gorgeous legs. And for these photographs I am eternally grateful. Yet, what I wouldn't give if they could speak to me.
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