My Santiago

Her Voice

It was her voice that held me.

Oft times picking up the phone – on a whim – I would dial Her Adelaide home. I knew - through experience - Eunice would pick up in that house, Number 4, on Pine Street, Where I spent feckless, teenage years. I’d imagine my father, In his red recliner, Dog by his side, Television on – too loud – Surrounded by the paraphernalia of leisure,

Books, magazines, Advertiser, And ubiquitous cross word, Calling out, “Euna, the phone”.

And Eunice would, wherever she was, Even sitting next to him, Spring up, Spring to life (Beyond her years), And cradle the receiver. Responding in voice, both schooled and caring, Fine blended – impossibly - with shyness and authority; Perfect English, immaculate tone, inflexed question; “Hello?”

She was always “well”; Even when she wasn’t!

“How are you Ma?” “Michael?” “I’m so happy you called.” “Ah, I’m fine, you know; how are you?” My question deflected back. Her question, full of solicitation, Selfless, flexed fierce love.

And as she aged (as we all do), The mantra would - comfortingly - be the same; (Alas, deceiving me into thinking life would always be like this) “How are you? Her voice captured it all!