Thin walls and certainty

The walls are thin tonight, I can hear things on the other side. Dark words hanging in the grey. Some voices are old and speak in tongues I feel more than hear. They sound like the ocean, or church.

There’s my brother’s voice with it’s pausing, hesitant rhythm that sometimes echoes in my son. It rises and falls out of step with the feelings but they still get through. Dad is quiet and brooding and working through what he should say. His index finger is beneath his nose to keep his thoughts from racing ahead of his heart. Beneath the anger he showed so easily is a fierce love. So much of him was fierce.

Mom’s voice has changed. It’s not distant or calculated and there’s a gentle warmth that works it's way through the hard shell I built when she wasn’t safe. Her tiny hand felt so fragile the last time I held it even as the spark that kept her upright was dimming. She fought her way back one last time, when the hospice nurse was sure she was gone, when her breath had all but stopped, to clasp my hand with her remaining strength and force her eyes open one last time to say, “I love you.”

Certainty doesn’t have an expiration date.