I thought I was finished with this, but apparently not. I think I'll probably add more at some point, exploring this universe. Just a short little piece that wanted out. Hope you enjoy!
His fingers glide over the keyboard, the relentless tap tap tap occasionally accentuated by the splash of a tear against the plastic letters as everything he yearns to tell her but doesn't spills onto the humming white document page.
I wish you could hear her laugh - it sounds like sunshine, warm and bright and utterly essential for life.
I wish you could hear the way she says 'Mommy', the adoration in her voice that makes it so clear how much she loves you, even in those two syllables.
I wish you could hear the way she sneezes; this snuffling little squeal that she gets so embarrassed about.
I wish you could hear the way her words pitch when she's excited, get higher and higher until they're barely within a range to be audible to humans, I swear.
I wish you could hear the little noises she makes, so like you. The way she harrumphs at a bad joke, or clicks her tongue against her teeth when I've done something to wind her up.
I wish you could hear the passion in her voice when she's found something she loves - a book or a word or a concept that she feels so deeply that it tumbles right out of her in the most beautifully eloquent of ways, despite her age. She's going to be ten times the writer I am, I promise you.
I wish you could hear the spark of intelligence that suffuses some of the things she says - she's so wise, Kate, and I know you know that. Know you can read it on her face as she signs along with her words… But there's such gravity to her voice, and you know she understands what she's learnt so effortlessly that it's become a part of her. She gets that from you. The fierce intellect.
I wish you could hear the pride in her voice when she tells people about you. About her brilliant mother who took tragedy in her stride and used it to become stronger. Her mommy who finds the bad guys just by looking at their behaviour, who is so clever she doesn't need anything other than that. Who is so beautiful, and so kind, and so brave - it breaks my heart into a million pieces and then puts it back together, stronger than ever, every time. The strength of her love for you.
I wish you could hear-
It gets too much, longing lurching from him in a sob rather than through his trembling fingertips.
He just wants her to be able to experience the joy that is their daughter in every possible way, wants not to see the desperate hunger to know on her face as the kid tosses some tease of an insult over her shoulder on her way to her bedroom.
He'll always tell her after, in a few sure gestures but - it's not the same. The joke has passed, or the humour of it is tainted by the sadness that, for the most part, they no longer feel. Their life is so full of colour and love; a great deal of the time, that's more than enough.
But today, the guilt that he thought he'd put to bed years ago is rearing its ugly head.
Their daughter's hesitant face as she asked him whether or not she should take part in her school concert, because she loves singing and playing but are you sure it won't make Mommy too upset because she can't hear? is on heart-breaking repeat in his minds' eye.
He'd tucked her gangly nine year old body into a hug, pressed a kiss against her temple and told her not to worry, of course she should perform and that her mother would be nothing but proud of her.
The last part was perhaps a partial lie - of course Kate would be proud. But sad too. That quiet sadness that sometimes hits her in the dead of the night and soaks his neck with the tears it lets loose.
She wishes she could hear.
He wishes she could hear.
Doesn't change a thing.
He snaps his laptop shut as he hears the door to the loft opening, stands to greet his wife. Hums his love for her against her cheek so that she can she can feel the words vibrate through her skin and takes her coat, hanging it in the closet. He turns around to find her still standing there, not having moved to collapse onto the sofa like he'd expected, like she usually does after work.
Instead she regards him with a soft smile and brushes her hand through his hair, tension draining from him with her touch.
"I love you," She tells him earnestly, uncertainty of why he looks so sad written in her features as he pulls her in for a hug, returning his embrace and murmuring soothing sweet-nothings until he breaks away, eyes considerably lighter.
Moments like this are all he needs to alleviate the guilt that still crushes him from time to time.
He doesn't need to use his hands to make his message clear. It's all there in his eyes.
I love you too.