Eight years is a long time. A long time to not laugh. A long time to not smile. And a long, long time for silence.
Eight years is a long time to miss your mother. To miss the smell of her perfume and the way her voice got soft and slow to make you sleepy at bedtime.
Yes, eight years was a long time for Kurt to be unhappy.
But for Burt, eight years was a long time to go without hearing his son's voice.
He used to smile and laugh and tell stories. He used to sing.
They used to have to remind him to be quiet, scold him for being too loud.
They. That is what had changed. The "they".
She died and his silence followed.
Absolute music. Burt remembered and hated himself for every time he had hushed his son. Why hadn't he treasured every squeal, every silly song the child had sang. Why hadn't he committed every word to memory.
Kurt's voice had been a beautiful gift and now it was gone.
But maybe not forever, Burt told himself at night, not forever.