The Day I Almost Forgot My Mother's Voice

I used to think memory was permanent.

I thought the important moments—the big smiles, the tragic goodbyes, the soft laughter in the kitchen—would live forever in my mind like old records waiting to be replayed. But I was wrong. Memory is a fading photograph, and one day, I realized I was losing my mother’s voice.

My mother passed away eight years ago. Cancer. One of those fast, ruthless kinds that doesn't care how loved you are or how many birthdays are left. She went from vibrant to vanished in under a year. I remember her last weeks vividly—how her fingers grew thinner, how she smiled even when it hurt, how she asked me to play her favorite music as she drifted in and out of sleep.

But strangely, over time, it wasn't the tragic memories that scared me—it was the fact that I could no longer clearly hear her laugh in my mind. That warm, bell-like sound she made when she found something truly funny. Or the way she’d call my name when dinner was ready. I knew she used to say, “Come, sweetheart, eat before it gets cold!” But now it felt like reading the words off a page. The sound was gone.

I panicked. One night, I tore through old phone backups, searched dusty CD cases, USB drives, voice mails, anything that might hold a sliver of her. Nothing. I cried harder than I had at her funeral. It felt like I was losing her all over again—only this time, quietly and slowly.

I talked to my brother about it the next day.

“You don’t remember either?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Sometimes, I dream about her. But in my dreams, she never speaks. Just smiles.”

There’s something profoundly heartbreaking about forgetting the sound of someone who raised you. Who held you when you cried, who scolded you when you deserved it, who read you bedtime stories in that gentle, knowing voice.

So, I started writing.

Not a book. Not a poem. Just a running list of everything I remembered about her. Her quirks. Her favorite foods. The phrases she used. The clothes she wore on weekends. The way she stirred her tea with exactly four loops. The little sigh she made before standing up from the couch. I wrote and wrote—not to preserve her memory, but to resurrect it.

Then one day, I got a message from an old family friend.

“I found an old video from your mom’s birthday. I think you’re in it too.”

I didn’t wait. I opened the file the moment it arrived. It was grainy, like all early-2000s camcorder clips, but there she was—blowing out candles, laughing, hugging relatives. And then she looked straight at the camera.

“My babies, thank you for this. I love you more than words can say.”

Her voice.

It wasn’t as I remembered it—no voice ever is, really. But it was hers. That soft inflection. The lilt at the end of “thank you.” The slight rasp that came after years of tea and morning air. I played it over and over. I sobbed, quietly and openly. And then I smiled.

Because sometimes, memories hide in places we forgot to look. I now keep that clip saved in three different places—my phone, my laptop, and a private cloud folder titled “Voice of Home.” I play it on hard days. Not to feel sad. But to remind myself that memory isn't just about holding on—it's about honoring what shaped you.

My mother’s voice isn't something I’ll forget again. But more importantly, I’ve learned that remembering takes work. It takes intention. And sometimes, it takes the love of people who carry different pieces of the same person.

So if you're reading this, call your parents. Record them if you can. Laugh with them. Listen. You never know which little moment will become the one you’ll hold onto for the rest of your life.