Post by folf on Jun 15, 2009 19:18:09 GMT -5
“Oh, surely you know why I love this song!” My father exclaimed, and that look entered his eyes. That look meant he wanted to tell that story. That look meant I would have to play along once again.
“No, truly! I forgot!” I was a great actor. My father was a poor critic. It required no more to launch him into a story whose words were etched into my mind.
“Because of ‘Hey Jude’, I got the courage to ask your mother out! This song is the reason we got married! This song is the reason you and your sister exist!”
“And the reason we had to suffer through her death.” I thought scornfully, but my father was no longer paying attention to me. I could almost see the memories floating above his eyes as the old record sung with a raspy voice.
Just like that record my father would endlessly repeat his story. I hated it. Each time it reminded me of her. My five senses overloaded with the memories. Her scent, her voice, her touch…he brought it all back in a relentless flood. My father told this story—always—under the premise of being the “loving, devoted widower”. Sometimes it appeared he even had himself fooled. But the real reason behind that lie had always been clear to me: he could let her go. Her wraith had to be clutched in his hands, her scent in the air, her touch on his cheek.
I hated it. I hated him. I hated that dumb song.
But most of all I hated myself. I hated that I bothered to listen to him each time. I hated that I lied to him.
I hated that I was just the same as him.
The record rattled to a stop, and my father stood to set it up again.
--
Microfiction at it's tiniest~
I am not as rabid a Beatles fan as I may seem.
Just happens I recently got some more of them my iPod.
If anyone takes the time to read this, thank you beforehand!
“No, truly! I forgot!” I was a great actor. My father was a poor critic. It required no more to launch him into a story whose words were etched into my mind.
“Because of ‘Hey Jude’, I got the courage to ask your mother out! This song is the reason we got married! This song is the reason you and your sister exist!”
“And the reason we had to suffer through her death.” I thought scornfully, but my father was no longer paying attention to me. I could almost see the memories floating above his eyes as the old record sung with a raspy voice.
Just like that record my father would endlessly repeat his story. I hated it. Each time it reminded me of her. My five senses overloaded with the memories. Her scent, her voice, her touch…he brought it all back in a relentless flood. My father told this story—always—under the premise of being the “loving, devoted widower”. Sometimes it appeared he even had himself fooled. But the real reason behind that lie had always been clear to me: he could let her go. Her wraith had to be clutched in his hands, her scent in the air, her touch on his cheek.
I hated it. I hated him. I hated that dumb song.
But most of all I hated myself. I hated that I bothered to listen to him each time. I hated that I lied to him.
I hated that I was just the same as him.
The record rattled to a stop, and my father stood to set it up again.
--
Microfiction at it's tiniest~
I am not as rabid a Beatles fan as I may seem.
Just happens I recently got some more of them my iPod. If anyone takes the time to read this, thank you beforehand!
