The Evening I Learned How Your Voice Fades

The evening I learned how your voice fades I was standing in the doorway of my childhood house listening to you say my name for the last time and already it sounded like something remembered rather than spoken.

The sun was low enough to turn the dust in the air gold. Heat clung to the walls and to my skin and even the cicadas seemed to pause as if the world were holding its breath. You stood just beyond the threshold where light met shadow and I stood inside where the room smelled of old wood and lavender soap. Your hat was in your hands. You kept turning it slowly as if it were something alive. When you spoke again you did not repeat my name. You said nothing important. You said you should go before dark.

I nodded. I always nodded then. I thought agreement might make the leaving smaller. When you stepped back the sound of your boots on the packed earth felt louder than the words we had avoided. I watched until the bend in the road took you and then I closed the door softly as though noise itself might break something that was already broken.

The town had been built to remember itself. Stone houses leaned toward one another and the streets curved gently as if they were tired of straight lines. In the mornings the river mist slipped between buildings and made everything feel unfinished. I worked at the cloth mill where looms beat a steady rhythm into the day and fibers clung to my clothes no matter how carefully I brushed them away. You came through town often then delivering ledgers and letters for merchants along the river road. Each arrival felt accidental though it never was.

We met first by the well where women gathered at dawn. You waited politely for me to finish drawing water. The rope burned my palms. You offered to carry the pail and I refused. You smiled as if refusal were a language you understood. We spoke of the weather and of roads and of the way the river had risen that spring. When you left I felt something settle into place without knowing what it was.

After that you found reasons to pass the mill at closing. The air would be thick with lint and evening light and the smell of oil. We walked together as far as the bridge where the river narrowed and ran fast. The boards there were worn and smooth. We leaned on the railing and watched the current pull at fallen leaves. You told me stories of towns farther east where buildings were taller and people spoke more quickly. I told you stories of nothing. You listened as though they mattered.

Autumn came quietly. The river lowered. The light softened. One afternoon rain began without warning and we took shelter beneath the bridge. Water drummed overhead and the air cooled enough to raise gooseflesh on my arms. You took off your coat and held it above us though it soaked through quickly. We stood close without touching. Your breath was warm against my temple. I could hear your heart. I wondered if you could hear mine. When the rain stopped we stepped apart at the same moment.

It was known that you would not stay. Everyone knew. The road belonged to you more than any place. My mother spoke of it gently as if gentleness could change truth. I told myself that knowledge was protection. Still when you spoke of winter routes and new contracts something in me tightened. I practiced letting go before there was anything to let go of.

The night before you were meant to leave the town held a festival for a saint no one remembered clearly. Lanterns were strung across the square and music drifted from an open window. I wore a dress I saved for Sundays. You wore a clean shirt and had shaved carefully. We danced once among others and then stood at the edge watching the lanterns sway. The light painted your face in moving color. You said that some places mark you even when you pass through. I asked if marks could fade. You did not answer.

Later we walked toward my house along the narrow lane. The stones still held warmth from the day. At my door we stopped. The moment stretched thin. You reached out then stopped. Your hand hovered near my sleeve. I wanted to lean into it and did not. We were careful even then. You said my name softly. I opened the door and the house breathed around me. When you said my name again it sounded farther away.

After you left life resumed its shape. The mill beat time. The river moved. I married a man chosen for steadiness. He worked the docks and came home tired and kind. We built a life from habit and shared silence. He died when the fever came through and took many. I mourned him fully. There are different kinds of love and different kinds of grief and they do not cancel one another.

Years passed. My hair threaded with gray. The town changed at the edges but not at its center. One afternoon a letter arrived bearing your hand. The paper was thin. The ink had faded slightly. You wrote of passing through nearby and wondered if I might walk with you to the bridge. I held the letter for a long time before answering. My reply was brief.

When we met again the river was high with spring rain. You looked older and familiar. Your voice when you said my name startled me with its closeness. We walked as we once had. Our steps remembered. At the bridge we leaned on the railing. Water rushed beneath us loud enough to cover our silence. You spoke of your life in fragments. I spoke of mine the same way. We did not speak of what remained between those fragments.

At last you said that you had listened for my voice in every place you went. That sometimes you thought you heard it in the market or along a road. You stopped then as if surprised by your own honesty. I watched your face and felt the truth of it settle slowly. I said that voices fade because we let them. That sometimes fading is a mercy. My voice did not tremble.

We stood there until the light changed. When you took my hand it was briefly and without urgency. The contact held years and released them at once. You smiled sadly. I smiled back. We said goodbye with care.

That evening I stood in my doorway again. The air was cool. Cicadas sang. When I spoke your name aloud it sounded distant and tender. I closed the door and let the sound go.