Three Voices

    The photo is worn, it is well loved. The right bottom corner is torn slightly. I can imagine my mother’s long fingers pulling gently on the edge to place it in this dark wooden frame. It’s a small frame. The glass is coming away from the edge. I imagine she bought it at a big box store for less than $10.00. The frame is dusty so I grab a piece of paper towel and gently buff away the proof of time ticking on. I turn it over and stroke the velvet back of the frame. I turn the clip holding the frame closed over with a sigh. The back seems to be bursting. I scratch at the edge of the frame and it opens easily. A sheet of lined notebook paper, slightly yellowed with time, falls into my lap. The back of the photo is still pristinely white. In the top left corner, written in small black letters is the date: FEB 2017. This was more than fifty years ago. I decide to open the piece of paper first and am brought to tears at the arge loops and deep curves of my mother’s cursive writing:

    The first voice I fell in love with was the deep, sexy one. I first heard it the first day I met you. It was the voice that dripped like honey from a golden spoon, my red lips wrapping around the curves. This voice had my tongue reaching out for just one more taste, licking the words clean off your mouth. It was low. It was slow. Like how my mother taught me to cook pot roast. I found myself wanting to dive into this voice. To swim in the deepest depths of every promise it made: I like you, You’re beautiful, I love you, Will you marry me. This voice demanded exploration. It made its intentions clear and I spent long summer days and cozy winter nights by roaring fires challenging myself, hoping to elicit one more promise from your cupid’s bow lips. I fell in love with the passion that was nestled in the fluctuations of higher pitch that snuck out of this voice. It was in this voice I saw myself as a passionate young woman. The kind of woman who wears a long, backless, red dress. She pairs the dress with skyscraper stilettos and a gold heart shaped locket given by you for their first anniversary. She spritzes soft touches of perfume on the long, crane-like neck that you will inevitably cover with kisses before collapsing into bed with her. In your words, I found a part of myself awakening. 

    The second voice I fell in love with was higher in pitch. I could hardly believe it was the same voice. It was playful and full of life. I first heard it standing in your uncle’s living room as your little cousins rushed to you two days before Christmas. Their doe eyes peered up at yours before you crouched down to their level and greeted them in this voice. I found myself standing in the entryway to the living room as a different part of myself fell in love with you. At this moment, I decided that you would father my children. This voice was youthful, full of warmth, and hope. It was this voice that read stories to the children circled on the carpet, enthralled in the noises that emanated from it. This voice could roar like a T-Rex, it could buzz like a bee, and whisper secrets only the reader is meant to know. It shepareded the children through a quarrel of which book to read next. I was relieved when it came out firm and disciplined after one of your cousins ripped a picture book from his little sister’s little hands. This voice knew the boundary between fun and discipline. It provided a safe place for the children of your world to stumble and fall. This voice would pick them up and dust them off. It was also exceptional at laughing. This was the voice of the tickle monster. In your words, I found a spark of innocence reigniting. 

    The last voice I fell in love with was gentle and soft, like hug my mother gave me after a bully called me a chink. I first heard this voice when a new bully entered my world. It was the voice that embraced me after a colleague called me fake and two faced. This voice promised hope for a new day. It validated my pain and my strength in one stroke. I was delighted, not offended, when this voice softly cued, Shhh to soothe my tears. Your hands worked with this voice to dry my tears and cradle a broken heart. Loyalty and safety backed this voice. They held anger at bay and I blushed at the thought of you defending me. This voice was also firm in its resolve when it told me to brush off this pain and return. It was the voice that encouraged me to end the chapter of my time with that company on my own terms. This was the voice of my eternal partner. The only one who saw behind the facade of confidence that I painted on my face each morning. In your words, I found a promise of marriage. 

    I take a deep, steadying breath after reading my mother’s words. Tears are falling down my cheeks steadily now.  I turn the story over in my hand. In the top right corner is the date: FEB 2021. I decide to examine the photo. In bold color, standing out despite Time’s weathering force, sit my mother and father. My mother is wearing dark, winged eyeliner and too much lipstick. Her cheeks are pink from the cold and snow falls softly around them. The sky remains blue, however. This is a photo capturing an early springtime Colorado snow. My mother’s long black silk stuns me. I search my memory for a time when it wasn’t tinted with grey hairs. Her hair is in a tight ponytail. She wears a big, black, puffy coat with hot pink peeking over the edges of the collar revealing the innards. My eyes flick over to my father. His moustache isn’t as full as I remember. In fact, it’s a bit wispy and if he was a stranger, maybe a tad creepy. But his eyes are soft and brown, full of life. A snowflake has been captured falling and makes his huge nose, the nose he so kindly gave to me, seem small. He wears an army green beanie and matching coat. Horsetooth Mountain looms in the background. She is snow capped and tucked into her winter bed. 

    “What kind of an idiot takes a seventeen year old on a hike as a second date?” demanded my mother. She sat at the kitchen table, sipping a large glass of wine. The sweet scent of lasagna and homemade garlic bread perfumed the kitchen. My father squeezed her hand below the table as he took a sip of his wine. “I was not an idiot. It was simply a test. And you passed,” he nuzzled her neck. She smiled. I blushed and tried to change the subject back to the thesis Jacob is working on. 

“I told you if you ask about the photo they wouldn’t shut up,” I chastised Jacob. He smiled and gave me a kiss on the cheek. I excused myself to the restroom. I’d learn a month later he asked my father for my hand that evening. Over cheesecake. And coffee. 

In hindsight, I never gave this photo a second glance. It lived on the little writing desk my mother received from my father for their second Christmas as a married couple. Its next door neighbor was the pen cup, filled to the brim with as many colors as possible. My mother’s desk was always a chaotic space- covered with stickers, homework assignments, sticky notes, and receipts. Cleaning it out has been a nightmare of unbelievable proportions.  But this photo seems to make it all worth it. It captures a time re-experienced only in my parents’ memory and through silly stories told over a campfire. I stick it in my purse, along with the story. I return home to a sandwich waiting for me on the kitchen table. Jacob offers me a quick peck on the cheek and fills a tall glass of cold sweet tea. “How was your parents house?” he asks me. I just shrug and dive into my meal: a ham and cheese sandwich with thin slices of tomato and a bag of chips. He kisses the crown of my head and takes Rover for a walk. I offer him a bite of bread behind Jacob’s back with a wink. I decide I need a coffee so I offer to pick one up for Jacob. But instead, my heart has me drive past the coffee shop and to the hobby store. Soft elevator music and bright fluorescent light embrace me along with a rush of AC. The hobby store smells sweet like cinnamon. I walk briskly to the back of the store, to the frame shop.

“How can I help?” asks a pizza faced teenager. 

“I’d like a custom frame,” I say while taking out the photo and the story. Kevin shows me a few options and I select a custom oak option. Kevin says the order will be ready in two weeks. I hesitate to hand over the photo. Kevin’s alien long fingers pull and I release it while demanding to hear my phone number again. I drive to the drive through coffee shop. I order a chai latte for myself and a peanut butter latte for Jacob. The order is handed to me by a perky college aged girl with long, blonde hair in a ponytail reminiscent of my mother’s. The two weeks fly by and I am surprised when an unknown number calls me to tell me it’s ready. I return to the store and find myself slightly nervous. I shake it off and smile at Kevin. He hands over the frame. My mother’s words are captured perfectly side by side next to the photo. My mother’s memory, her love of my father, is preserved by glass forever.