Voice Exercises

Dear Dad,

Last night I saw you again, and I counted the years since you died.  Forty.  But there you were, and the first thing I noticed was how, when you smiled, your cheeks would only hint at dimples, cavities that ever so slightly hollowed out your face.  I noticed, too, how your black hair on your forehead curled into a neat, long wave, and I wondered at that.  I wondered if it bothered you as much as it bothered me.  But then I thought that when we are boys we don't care about our hair--not one whit--and you were so clearly a boy with the curled hair and the rabbit on your lap.  You stroked the rabbit, and despite the flickering black and white film, I could see the concentration on your face when you did it.  It is possible that you were posing for the camera; these old films have lots of that.  It's also possible that when I watched the film of you I was looking hard for the you I needed to see, the one before vodka and cigarettes, the one before the long, messy end of your life.  For whatever reason, I saw  the clear face of a boy with a rabbit on his lap, the gentle friction of his hand stroking its fur, and the static of a simple pleasure.