My mother lost her voice today. I call her everyday from my cell phone. Sometimes in between classes. Sometimes on my way to the subway, or in between sips of coffee, or on the sidewalk where I stand in one corner and get hit by walkers. I call everyday. To reassure us both we are okay and because she is more positive on the other end of the line than when we converse face-to-face. Maybe because I am so far away she knows I need her positive energy.
But today I don’t recognize her muffled, hushed, screwed-up voice; it sounds old and bizarre and broken. I want to cry. I hang up. I tell her we will talk when she is better.
I can’t help it though. I call again later in the evening at Starbucks. I am tired and want to cry and she sounds the same. It’s almost frightening.
“Are you sick? Did you go to the doctor?”
No. She says.
I can’t do it. We say good bye. I sink deeper into the foreign couch, put my coffee aside and think of that eerie, unfamiliar voice.