Distant Voices by Jamie Kirkpatrick

Sixteen years ago, Cortona, Italy…. On a cool but unmistakably spring morning, I rose early and wandered up one of the many hills in town. I sat on an old stone wall beside the locked door of the convent, closed my eyes, and turned my face toward the rising sun. Coming from inside, I could faintly hear the cloistered sisters singing—no, chanting—their first devotions of the day. All else was still. I remember there was a tabby cat on another nearby wall who seemed to hear the music, too. The nuns’ voices seemed to come from far away, maybe almost from heaven.

Funny how memories come sneaking back across the years. Don’t ask me why this particular one came back to me today; maybe it was something in the slant of the morning sunlight, or perhaps it was the bunny rabbit I saw in the shadows just before I went to sleep last night. He was standing stone still in front of the house, just watching me as I turned out the lights before heading upstairs to bed. Whatever it was, when I woke up this morning, it all came flooding back. I could hear those distant voices all over again, faint but clear, just as I did on that other spring morning so many years ago.

And I thought about all the other distant voices in my life: my parents, talking to each other from opposite ends of the dining room table. My two sisters, both now gone: one encouraging me, the other berating me for being such a brat. My own two children, both now living far away and largely silent. Some old friends, either estranged or just out of touch. Former teachers and coaches and colleagues. Even the old muezzin in the little village I lived in when I was a Peace Corps Volunteer, the one who removed his false teeth before calling the faithful to prayer five times a day.

But, please, I’m not asking for your pity. Believe me, I still hear plenty of nearby voices: from my vibrant and chatty wife; from our boisterous grandchildren; from all the friends who still surround and support me: their laughter, their secrets, their stories. Trust me: I lack for nothing now, but I do remember the days when I was sorting this all out, trying to make some sense out of life’s hubbub. Trying to find a moment of calm silence in the eye of the hurricane. Straining to hear what I needed to hear, and filtering out all the extraneous voices.

But back to that spring morning In Italy, and those sweet voices that seemed to seep through the rude, stone walls of the convent. I’d like to hear them again. To feel the rising sun warm my face; to make friends with that cat; to walk back down the hill, and sit in the piazza with a coffee and a croissant, watching the village begin another busy day in an endless string of busy days that never seemed to change anything very much. The buzz and hum of life, rising and falling like the tide on my life’s shore. 

All those distant voices.

I’ll be right back.

Jamie Kirkpatrick is a writer and photographer who lives in Chestertown. His work has appeared in the Washington Post, the Baltimore Sun, the Philadelphia Inquirer, the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, the Washington College Alumni Magazine, and American Cowboy Magazine. His debut novel, “This Salted Soil,” and a delightful children’s book, “The Ballad of Poochie McVay,” are available on Amazon, as are two collections of essays (“Musing Right Along” and “I’ll Be Right Back”). Jamie’s website is Musingjamie.net.