1. rich and full in sound, as language or verse.
2. giving out or capable of giving out a sound, especially a deep, resonant sound, as a thing or place: a sonorous cavern.
The gentle rise and fall of my wife’s abdomen was comforting as I rested my heavy head in the one place of safety I still trusted. She gently raked her fingers through my hair, attempting to pull worries from my mind.
Her breathing shifted as her hand paused in my hair and came to rest in the middle of my chest.
I turned my head toward the door.
“I can’t sleep…will you come play…”
My son’s tiny voice was tentative, unsure if he’d come to the kind, affable father he loved, or the angry, bitter man who’d recently taken his father’s place. His hesitation and uncertainty saddened me. I never wanted to be someone he was scared of. That was always the one thing I didn’t want passed down to my own son. And yet, I found myself wondering what father I was at that moment.
I had no desire to move or to tell my son that I couldn’t really be his father anymore, not like I used to be anyway.
My wife gently moved my head to the bed as she got up. Without looking in her direction, the all too familiar sound of a particular drawer opening and closing let me know she was not to be completely trusted. Her betrayal was agonizing, but I lay on the bed silent, refusing to move. I was still wondering what to say when she popped the latches of my case and placed the instrument on my chest and the bow in my hand.
“The faster our son goes to sleep, the faster you come back to me,” she whispered in my ear, nudging me with her hands.
After seven years of marriage, I understood clearly. If I didn’t comfort my son, I wouldn’t be comforted tonight either.
I tried not to show my reluctance as I peeled myself off the bed, my wife slowly walking ahead of me to our son’s room.
My son turned quickly and bounded down the hall toward his room, his swift breathing peppered with excitement.
“Cover up and get comfortable,” I said, like I used to, but without the warmth or thrill I used to have. “Get really cozy and close your eyes.”
I sat on the edge of his bed, like I had hundreds of times before, feeling my son’s movements as he burrowed into the right spot, shaking the entire bed. With a deep breath I put the viola to my chin.
With my eyes closed I gently placed the bow against the strings. My mind became blank as muscle memory took over and my cares became enveloped in beautiful notes. The deep sonorous call of the viola, filling my son’s room.
With each note, the present seemed to slip away. Only the smell of my wife stayed with me as I remembered the first time I picked up a viola, random things like my son’s deep blue eyes, his freckles, the panic I felt when our car was hit by a semi truck, my wife was unresponsive and our son’s cries went unanswered. Completely blind and pinned in the my seat, I was utterly powerless to get him out of the car.
My wife’s gentle touch stopped me. Our son was asleep. His breathing was soft and slow. Tears had moistened my cheeks and probably my viola. I heard my wife kiss our son goodnight and wish him sweet dreams before taking my hand and leading me back to our bedroom.
She took my instrument from my hands and returned it back to the case as I made my way back to the bed and laid down. As she curled her body around mine I felt safe again. She cradled my head again, whispering to me, knowing I felt angry about being asked to do what used to be normal when nothing would ever be normal again.
With gentle force she turned my face toward her, knowing I couldn’t see her, but not caring apparently.
“Things are different, but you are still needed in this family,” she said. “You’re still wanted.”
I nodded, understanding her words, but not knowing how to make myself believe them.
Her kisses diminish the flames of anger that have threatened to become a raging bonfire that consumes me and our family.
It’s obvious from her voice that she misses me. And it’s crazy, because I miss me too.