When my eyes are closed on a warm sunny day, and I begin to drift, sometimes I hear my father’s voice.
Not words per se, or any particular sentence, just the sound of him. And it is him. For a split second that recognition that it is his voice.
Unmistakable. Clear. Almost jolts me awake to look around for him. And yet it is reassuring to hear him in my head. It is him.
In places we’ve shared. Fond memories, good times, poignant. His voice reassuring, real, relevant, not ethereal. Him.
Sometimes, I hear my father’s voice.