I wrote this the other night after leaving an AA meeting.
On my way out, I stopped to look at the bulletin board of group members who have passed away. My grandfather is among them.
I go to meetings a few times a week, and I get to hear the voices of countless wonderful people. Looking at those photos, I thought about the people I used to hear in that same room.
I've heard it said that someone's voice is one of the first things we forget when they're gone. I hope that isn't true. But standing there, the sound of their voices and stories filled my head.
For a moment, I could hear them again.
That's where this poem came from. Remembering people who once shared that hall, my grandfather included, and feeling thankful I'd been there to listen.
They're gone, but we still have their stories. We repeat something they said. We look at an old photograph, and for a moment, there they are.
I suppose that's how our memories keep the dead alive.
The original poem
The Silent Gift
I’ve heard it said that the sound of someone’s voice is one of the first things we forget when someone is gone.
I go to AA meetings a few times a week, and I get to hear the voices of countless wonderful people. But time catches even the once wicked. The one guarantee we all have to look forward to, our demise.
As I gaze upon the wall of photos, faces that I once shared this hall with, the sound of their voice and stories fills my head. In memorium, the new voices say - I’m just thankful to have not let their words go unheard.
My grandfather