When I picture my dad, for example, I first think of his warm hazel eyes. Then I see his hooked nose in my mind, followed by his shiny almost-bald head and sweet, indulgent smile. With my mum, it always starts with her cute button nose, one that I sort of got from her.Then I see her beady eyes hidden behind her gigantic frames, her lovely wheatish complexion and her long wavy, wispy hair.
I would start describing my oldest friend with her gorgeous, straight, raven black hair. Then I'd tell you about her nose, which turns up right at the end, like the roof of a Pagoda. My sweetest friend I would describe from her smile - one that captures the beauty and the joy of each ray of purest sunshine that falls on your face. One of my favourite uncles I would start describing by his Voice.
One of my earliest memories of him involve an untimely cough that resonated through the whole house. That's how we'd get informed of his arrival, the wind would carry his deep voice till the last room where we (the kids) used to hang out and we'd run to meet him. He has always been one of my dearest uncles. This very moment, I can hear his deep voice being lowered to a childish coo as he says my name while pulling my cheeks. "Tuntuni", he calls me by the nick name my parents have given me. Not the god-awful "tuntun" everyone has reverted to.
His voice has influenced me in more ways than he'll ever know. More ways than even I know. I love voices. At a young age, I developed a fascination with voices. You know how people enjoy good food, good wine and/or good music? I enjoy good voices. I love hearing them. And no, I don't mean singing voices. I don't really care if someone can sing or not. But I do love a good speaking voice. I love orators, sexy articulators, just about any one with a rich luscious voice.
I try to go out of my to be a good speaker. It has become one of those things that I find attractive in a man. Voices have become such an integral part of my life that I can't imagine living without my own, living without listening to others. The first boy I actually liked liked
And it all started with an uncle. "Do you know him? He has a very deep voice. No? He's tall too. And a deep voice...". That's how I used to talk about him.
That's the only way I know how to talk about him.
Imagine my shock when I found out that my uncle, due to some medical condition ( I don't know the actual medical details and to be honest I don't really want to know), his voice box would have to be removed (these are my mum's actual words). That was more than a year ago. He's visiting my folks tomorrow. I'll probably talk to him. Hear his new, mechanical voice.
not His Voice.
never His Voice.
I'm still trying to wrap my head around the fact that talking to my uncle will not be the same. I know there are things I should be thankful. "It could have been Life-Threatening" mum keeps reminding me. At least he's alive.
Maybe, like my mum says, I really do hate change. Maybe I'm just not ready to face the fact that something that shaped me doesn't exist anymore.
Tomorrow should be interesting.