"I was raised in North Carolina by two remarkable, persevering women—my grandmother and my great-grandmother, whom I called Nana. They were my entire world. They taught me how to work hard and how to stand independently.

My grandmother passed away over thirty years ago when I was just a boy in the seventh grade. I can still remember her presence so clearly. I remember helping her water her indoor plants. I can still see her standing right there at the screen door, waiting for me when I got off the school bus. I can still picture her standing in the doorway when it was dinner time and I was outside riding my bike. But thirty years is a long, unforgiving stretch of time. Today, the one thing that has entirely slipped away from me—the one thing I can no longer conjure in my mind—is the sound of her voice. I would give absolutely anything I own just to hear her speak my name one more time. Just to hear her laugh.

In 2009, my Nana passed away. Because it has not been quite as long, I can still remember the sound of her voice perfectly today. But with every year that passes, I find myself dreading the day that her voice too will begin to fade into that same heavy silence of time. It brought me to a terrifying truth: when someone we love dies, we scramble to save their photos, their old letters, their clothes, and different keepsakes. But the very first thing we actually lose forever is the timbre of their voice.