At the Edge of Voice

Already, I am looking—

at my son, eight years old,

his voice nearly stolen

by the noose that sought

his life and light.

I look again,

and wonder if the entertainer

will carry forward

the creative fire,

my love for the brightness

of the sun.

I look upon my father,

seventy-eight,

his voice dimmed by cancer,

that thief of breath and brilliance.

I look again,

and wonder if the orator

will pass down

his brilliance,

his love for the brightness

of his grandson.

Blue eyes, fresh as sky,

white-blond hair

flaring against

aged hazel,

silvered strands—

sunlight mirrored,

generation to generation.

And I stand here,

in the pause between—

not choosing,

not losing,

only holding both,

grateful

for another sunlit day

at the edge of voice.