After you left, I found the tape reel in your belongings.
I should have mailed it to you, or at least thrown it out. Instead, I threaded it through my 16 track recorder and pressed play.
Your voice floated out from the speakers, warm and close. The fidelity was breathtaking. It sounded as if you were standing right next to me. The hairs stood up on my arms. I could almost smell you.
You used to sing to me, late at night, sitting on the studio floor with half-drunk bottles of wine in our hands. It was your private gift to me.
And then you left.
I stop the tape. Rewind. Play the tape again, dubbing your voice to a second track. Rewind. Dub. Rewind. Dub. The tape warps. Static leaks in.
I repeat the process over and over until there’s nothing left of you but white noise.
image: Angelica East
text: David Witteveen