My family’s voices are reminded that we are not from here. We pronunciate words wrong: “room” like “rum,” “hammock” like “ham-ick,” “aunt” like “ont.”

But to me, my dad’s voice is like home. His voice is the alarm that wakes me up in the morning with the smell of dendryte ice blue mint gum. The sound that was born in Boston, and is kept quiet after a 12 hour of work. It is the sound of music that promises pizza for dinner, and the punch in the car that is all too active in traffic. His voice is like a hug that comforts me when the day runs too long.

When I hear his voice, with its slight New-England accent that reminds me of where I am from, I can hear all of my cousins and I playing in the pool when we could barely swim. I hear the cardinal that sang outside my window when I was five, and the ice cream truck driving down my street. When I hear his voice, I feel like I am home again.