Like a galloping horse, fast and bumpy, is my brother’s voice. It rumbles and jumps, uncomfortably loud, like the feeling of an itch, like a chair that is too hard. 

To the point, like a streaking arrow finding its mark, is my father’s voice. At times, it’s short and energizing, giving motivation and purpose. Other times, it’s long and whistling; difficult and confusing.

Like a peacock fanning out its feathers, and like a songbird in the early morning, is my mother’s voice. Soothing to emotions and smooth like oil poured from a lamp, it exudes calm. But when disturbed, it becomes tense, like a taut rope, on the verge of snapping.

And my voice -  the one unknown to my own ears, yet known freely to all others, is the most magical of all. It feels warm, quiet, and gentle - like an evening sunset, at peace with itself. It gives generous compliments like sweet gifts, and makes clever remarks like pieces of unfound wit. Like a blend of my brother’s pace, my father’s direction, my mother’s comfort - like a combination of them all, is my voice.