So that I can be his voice
It hasn’t been long since my father’s stroke but, I am already forgetting the smell of his voice. That whiff, in which we could hear the squelch of anxious bodies jostling on a Railway Station. Our voices hung over his reticence like crimes. And his few words were rust barely holding the metal of a sentence together. The angst of his boyhood would often crumble through the grease of time like oxidised self. While he eased the sorrows of machines the cogs of his family eroded. His love for us was measured in his privations. The cadavers of his frayed shirts and the fossils of his worn shoes were like the deserted cities, held together by ghettoes of hope. In rooms, which grieved of claustrophobia, my mother’s shame would drain his embrace and his respite. The streets where she perished, and he lost the syllables of speech; at their zenith noise will be deep. But I must reach to scr