Poetry: My Father's Voice
For the life of me, I cannot hear the sound of my father’s voice, cannot in fact remember his last words to me.
I sway to the rhythm of us rocking on our front porch, overlooking that steep hill and a weeping willow tree, the pricks of stubble against my cheek, the smell of coffee grounds steaming from his cup.
His thin lips press wet on my forehead.
My hairs stand on end when he smiles and says, “Proud of you, son.”
With my ear to his bare chest, I hear the click…click…click of his mechanical valve, opening and closing, the feathery nest of silver hair tickling my lobes.
My hands still tense when the clicking stops.