Thinking of You
By
Alyson Grant
I told him about my parent's arguments and how they made me feel.
I told him about all the times when I was younger and my dad used to put on the record player and then I'm Happy Just To Dance With You, I'm A Loser, or When I'm Sixty-Four, would come wafting throughout the house.
He'd hold out one contrite hand to my mother at times, even add a little gallant bow to try to make her laugh at others and would always, always put on his best 'I'm sorry' expression that I'd like to believe wasn't purely fabricated.
And they'd dance.
They'd listen to the lyrics and to the melody and try to find comfort in each others arms.
They'd let the music do the talking since their own words and what they usually had to say to each other in those first few moments came out wrong and harsh and as sharp as a knifes steel edge.
They'd sway in each others arms and they would try, yes they would try, not to go to bed angry.
Now that seems incredibly innocent.
Now even the Beatles couldn't stop my mom from snapping out something harsh and my normally gentle father from reciprocating equally in turn.
Then they'd seem to remember that Sadie and I were home.
They would intentionally lower their voices as if the anger vibrating through the walls would have less of an effect if we couldn't hear the words clearly.
My mom would start banging pots around in the kitchen and they'd start talking in these high pitched fake cheery voices.
But it was too thin a veil over an obvious situation.
They weren't good pretenders.
They are not good pretenders.
Everything between them seems so screwed up.
One night after recording a song I confided that one of my worst fears was that they'd divorce.
How messed up would that be?
Who would I live with?
Who would get custody?
But they have therapy (not that it seems to be working) so maybe…maybe it won't come to that.
I hope.
AG Author's Note-
Duddley111, pixiestix16, GiliwasCool and mZtOmMyQ5319
Thanks for reviewing chapter five!