Gordie stood in the room motionless. Why did he have to go bring back all
those memories? Memories I had tried so hard to bury, memories that still
hurt today. I quickly walked into the room, this was Deni's room and I
didn't want Gordie there.
The bed was neatly made, trophies still stood proudly on the shelves. The sunlight filtered through the faded curtains. Photographs of the family still stood on the desk, along with the stack of books. Everything was left how it was; nothing had changed except for the layer of dust.
I could almost see Deni sitting there, sitting at his desk listening to the radio. I could see him lying on his bed reading a book; I could even see his preparing for his big game. Boy, Deni could play football. I taught him when he was little, and as soon as he could catch I knew he had a talent. Every time he would play, he would make me proud.
Gordie had brought those memories back. Brought back the hurt and pain. Why couldn't he have just left it alone? Why did he have to remind me? Deni was a good boy, had decent friends, and played first-rate football. Gordie was different. I love him, but he never had that physical build. He wasn't interested in football; he wasn't interested in any sport. I just couldn't communicate him; I couldn't communicate with him like I did with Deni.
I shook my head, as if to clear it. Gordie closed the cupboard door behind him, bottle in his hands. "You found it", I said. He looked up startled. His eyes were bright with held back tears, I could see he missed Deni. I knew I should have felt sorry for him, but I couldn't. Gordie had brought back the anguish; he had brought back the memories. I had lost the only son I felt close to, the son I had been able to teach and made me feel proud. Now Gordie had reminded me of the pain.
Hastily I ushered Gordie from the room, closing the door firmly behind me. "Why couldn't you have had friends more like Deni's?" I said turning around. Gordie knew what I meant, "Chris isn't a thief" he replied coldly. I simply wished that Gordie were more like Deni. "He stole the milk money, he's a thief in my book". Then I would not feel so lost, helpless, useless.
AN – ummmmm, just review and tell me what you think. Pleaz!
The bed was neatly made, trophies still stood proudly on the shelves. The sunlight filtered through the faded curtains. Photographs of the family still stood on the desk, along with the stack of books. Everything was left how it was; nothing had changed except for the layer of dust.
I could almost see Deni sitting there, sitting at his desk listening to the radio. I could see him lying on his bed reading a book; I could even see his preparing for his big game. Boy, Deni could play football. I taught him when he was little, and as soon as he could catch I knew he had a talent. Every time he would play, he would make me proud.
Gordie had brought those memories back. Brought back the hurt and pain. Why couldn't he have just left it alone? Why did he have to remind me? Deni was a good boy, had decent friends, and played first-rate football. Gordie was different. I love him, but he never had that physical build. He wasn't interested in football; he wasn't interested in any sport. I just couldn't communicate him; I couldn't communicate with him like I did with Deni.
I shook my head, as if to clear it. Gordie closed the cupboard door behind him, bottle in his hands. "You found it", I said. He looked up startled. His eyes were bright with held back tears, I could see he missed Deni. I knew I should have felt sorry for him, but I couldn't. Gordie had brought back the anguish; he had brought back the memories. I had lost the only son I felt close to, the son I had been able to teach and made me feel proud. Now Gordie had reminded me of the pain.
Hastily I ushered Gordie from the room, closing the door firmly behind me. "Why couldn't you have had friends more like Deni's?" I said turning around. Gordie knew what I meant, "Chris isn't a thief" he replied coldly. I simply wished that Gordie were more like Deni. "He stole the milk money, he's a thief in my book". Then I would not feel so lost, helpless, useless.
AN – ummmmm, just review and tell me what you think. Pleaz!