My mother is singing in the basement
as she irons my father’s clothes.
I listen, anxious, for I know
the potential of that voice, though she does not.
My mother, at sixty-six, sings
like a shy child—hesitantly, self-consciously—
but her voice is rich, like a heavily silted portion
of the Amazon.
Filled with the stuff of life,
it yearns, and aches. It is textured,
like the bark of an evergreen oak,
and tells a tale of a long-hidden desire
and fearful love.
It is a scarred voice, and when I hear it,
my heart aches as I hope
that the sustained note
that has never stopped rising within her
will finally be heard.
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