His Voice

I remember my father’s veiny hands clutching the armests
...his watery eyes closed
...his head leaving a hair-oil stain on the recliner
...his eyelids illuminated by the flicker of the television set

I remember his long, long fingernails
...the few times he showed his white, white legs in shorts
...the knife he always kept in his pocket "just in case"

I remember his white mustache stained at the nostrils by tobacco
...the way he hugged his granddaughters close
...the way he dozed through my mother’s voice calling,
“Bill, Bill! Bill, come to bed!”

I remember his hair
when it was grey
when it was white
when it was matted with sweat on his hospital pillow

I remember all of these things...

but I don’t remember his voice.