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voices
January 14, 2020
My family has a multitude of different voices. My mother’s, whose voice is like a heard of animals running in the wild. A voice so broad you barely hear your own breath. My father’s voice is passive. Words so gentle they are like a feather touching your skin. Two voices of so different from quite different people.
My voice is a split between them. Not loud, nor gentle, rather a voice so soft but forceful. A voice like demands—known to be followed. A voice so sweet that bites sour. A voice that doesn’t want to be heard, a voice ready to erupt.
© Maya Angelou
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