This morning, familiar sounds drift in as I lie in bed. The ticking clock, birdsong, grasses. A babe, no longer sickly, inches from my face, teeth beaming in fat, rosy cheeks. The childish voices in another part of the house,quiet murmurings.
But your voice does not join the weave. No humming in the kitchen, no radio drone, clink of a knife on a plate..