The silent voices

I miss not hearing their voices any more. Alasdair’s voice, and Dad’s too.At home I live in a world in which their presences have been ripped out, and only in my memories can I hear the distant echo of their voices. Thankfully, Mum is still here. She knows me well and knows how to give me those words that I so miss. I envy her strength and her ability to listen. I envy her blonde hair, bright yet not in a brassy way. The photo gives an idea of this mix of vigour and generosity.
She always looks you right in the eye, with her own eyes shining with an intimidating fire. She is worshipped by people from around here, just like the statue she has almost become…she has done so much, and knows so much about our village. She was the guardian of the holy areas, and continues to be so through me.Sometimes I think that I’m following in her tracks, taking care of the cemetery in her place. At the beginning, all I did was carry out a task that goes above and beyond a purely material aspect. I would visit the Templar graves, pulling out the few weeds that would spring up here and there, carefully moving a stone where you could see a cross, a sword, a lying, faceless statue…I still repeat the same gestures, with the same care and the same rituals, but now I’ve changed. Understand that this is a subtle, spiritual change. By taking over from my mother with these discreet, prestigious dead people, by carrying out the ritual homage day after day, month after month, I wasn’t just moving the earth and mad weeds around them. I was working my own land, modelling the clay of my own inner being. In silence. Silent voices : continuation.Always in silence. Back to the silent voices.My father’s voice comes from the distance, as if muffled behind a veil. I was so young when he died. He would sing old Gaelic airs to me – laments and lively jigs – with his friends and brothers joining in some evenings… I loved it, and let myself be carried away by the powerful force of this melodious yet serious body, with its incredible energy.The voice of Deidre as well, her name only too fitting, who had killed herself in the dark waters of Loch Awe, and who still whispers her last sobs in my ear.Alasdair’s voice, at last. So close, so clear. I don’t need to close my eyes to hear it again. When did I lose him ? Yesterday, it seemed like he was at my side. Time doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter anymore. Alasdair...