Introduction
In my childhood, home was not just four walls. My home was my father’s voice. That familiar sound echoing through the rooms early in the morning gave a subtle hint of how the day would unfold. Before I even opened my eyes, I would hear his quiet talking, sometimes just his cough, or the sound of a spoon stirring a cup of tea. And I knew — the home was here, everything was in its place.
Mornings that Began with a Voice
A voice is invisible, but it can be deeply felt. My father’s voice helped me find my sense of belonging. Each morning, among the sound of the samovar from the kitchen, his deep, calm “good morning” spread a divine serenity throughout the house. Every breath carried warmth and familiarity.
My father didn’t speak much, but every word held the weight of his character. When he was silent, the house too fell silent. As if the house spoke through his voice, listened through it. One small cough from him was enough to tell me, “I’m here, don’t be afraid.”
Evenings Completed by a Returning Sound
At night, we would wait within those four walls to hear his footsteps. The steady rhythm of his shoes on the floor would complete the day. The door opening, his coat being hung up, followed by a wordless, melancholic “hello”. My mother would cook dinner, I would do my homework — but when he entered, the house would come alive again.
"My girl, aren’t you tired?" — sometimes that one phrase would wipe away all fatigue and heaviness. In his voice was the answer to all my silent questions — a world where I was protected, loved, and wrapped in care.
Not Music, But the Voice Itself Was Music
My father often listened to mugham. Bülbül, Rashid Behbudov, Sara Gadimova… His favorite song was "You never came." When he quietly hummed it to himself, even the walls would listen in silence. That voice brought life to the lonely rooms. It turns out, the music of the house wasn’t in records or radios — it lived in my father’s voice.
When He Fell Silent, the House Fell Silent
Time passed. Everything was still in its place, except for that voice. My father spoke less and less. Not his body, but his spirit had grown tired. The walls, the carpets, the windows — they were all there, but without his voice, the house was silent. That’s when I realized: home is voice. Home is the presence of the living. My father’s voice was the heartbeat of my home.
Voices That Live in Memory
Today, sometimes when I sit alone in a room, it feels like I still hear that voice. “Don’t worry, my girl. Everything will be okay.” It circles in my mind. Sometimes when I speak, I realize I’m speaking in his tone. His voice hasn’t disappeared — it has become part of my soul.
What Is the Foundation of a Home?
Wood, concrete, brick? No. The foundation of my home is my father’s voice. That voice made me feel alive. It protected me. It loved me. That voice is no longer here, but its memory lives deep inside me.
Conclusion – Life Within the Silence
Life often takes much away from us. But the voices that stay in our memory can bring us back to life. My father’s voice was the voice of my home. And now, that voice quietly lives in the home of my soul.
Maybe everything will change. New homes, new people will fill the world. But with each sip of tea, that voice will rise again inside me.
And once more, I’ll say:
Home is here.