the rattle of an incoming call on my glass table startles me. an atlanta area code – who from my past could it be? i answer. he uses my given name but the sound of his voice is so comforting i don’t bat an eye. “do you know who this is?” how could i forget that smooth southern baritone who led me to love music for the first time?

i had to explain to my childhood choir director that, no, i don’t think i’ll be in town for christmas. my parents and i are in a stalemate. me not giving an inch and them not asking for fear of confirming what they already know; i’m their son. i couldn’t tell him that though. i said that my parents and me don’t talk much any more and i don’t know what my holiday plans are. i would drive to atlanta to see him and all the other folks that raised me though. maybe i still will (especially if i can swing a name-changing court date during that time period).

it’s funny what our memories hold onto. how does a series of drawls and precariously placed cadences cement the identity of another person into the brain? what makes one voice distinctive and another easily misplaced? what do people think of my voice? what will it sound like when my hormone of preference changes it for good (for the better. so much for the better)? always, i have so many questions.

i only have my experiences – no answers. i know that the simple greeting of the sound of my beloved shoots warmth through my being every time. their voice is full of promise and love. soundwaves… that’s all. but the soundwaves i love. maybe love is more scientific than we think – maybe our brains more romantic. i just know it to be beautiful – minds, times, voices, and all.


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