Stupid.
Theres something to those late night talks, those late night confessions under lamp light outside a torn down little townhouse, with the radio blaring nothing and the air blasting that always use to make me look up at the sky and let out a big sigh.
I’d look up at those forever clouds, those fluffy pillows of something so far away they couldn’t possibly be real, and then back at whoever was next to me, whichever poor chap I had listen to all those things that weren’t really problems, but to me, they were. And I’d try to smile kindly, and I’d try to wave it off, and yea, it’d be ok.
But it wasn’t ever really ok.
Opening the car door, I could already hear the yelling. Those drunken slurs from inside the house that would make cats run away screeching, that kept us rodent free. I would get to the front of the house, and in goes the key, and I’d turn it making sure to open the door slow so they wouldn’t know I was already home.
I’d shut the door, inching it closer, closer to the frame as I dropped my things on the sofa and crept, all to quietly, the kind of quite the stairs like to bomb at, that quite that no matter what you try, every creek lets out a squeal, up to my room.
I’d open my bedroom door and close it quick, and lock it quicker, hoping beyond hope they wouldn’t come in.
Because if they did, I knew it wouldn’t be pretty.
Because if they did, I knew that one of us would be on the floor, and there wouldn’t be a door on that frame anymore.
When you’re a kid, grown ups will try to hide you away from all those little things kids aren’t suppose to see.
They’ll tell you the red on daddy’s collar was just mommy telling him goodbye. They’ll say how, when big sister is throwing up in the bathroom after she ate that brownie, it’s just because she ate to much. Perfectly normal.
They’ll tell you how, screaming and yelling and crying yourself to sleep at night, that’s all just part of growing up. That’s how mommy and daddy talk.
That’s just how it’s supposed to be.
I remember when I realized mommy and daddy weren’t just “talking” for the first time.
I was one grade below starting and we were still back in Jersey. We lived in this real old style apartment building, the kind made of bricks with neighbors that’d been around for ages.
One day, after school, I had walked upstairs and heard mommy and daddy, and they were just talking again.
I crept inside the apartment, crept past my baby brother’s room, and opened my door.
I remember looking at the Power Rangers poster on my bedroom wall, and smiling before walking in and closing it.
As time went on the talking got louder, until I heard a big thump against my door.
I opened it to see what had happened, and there laid mommy, the Power Rangers poster ripped in two.
And it was then I knew that they weren’t just talking anymore.
This guy I know, he says innocence ends when you realize you’re going to die.
I think innocence ends when you realize mommy and daddy aren’t the Power Rangers anymore.
It’s that moment when you look up at mommy and see the wrinkles in her face, or the eyes caked with mascara. It’s the moment that she isn’t the most beautiful girl in the world, most likely when she’s behind the wheel of a mini van and driving you to soccer practice.
My dad use to always start to tell me stories about when he was younger, how he had this poodle named something stupid, something I’d never expect my dad to name it.
He’d say how he use to love this poodle, how he’d bring it with him to college and fought his brother over who got to keep it, and when it died, he broke down and cried.
My dad! Crying!
But then I’d ask him more about it, and he’d always say that he’d tell me the rest when I was older, older.
But I never got old enough, not for him.
So I never heard the rest of his poodle story. And after a while, I stopped caring.
After so long, you realize its better to just walk past the ripped poster on the floor, and just not cry about it.
You realize that, it may be cold and they may be crazy, but theres always a way out.
And you realize that its almost over. You can’t change them, oh no, but you can change you.
I’d look up at those forever clouds, those fluffy pillows of something so far away they couldn’t possibly be real, and then back at whoever was next to me, whichever poor chap I had listen to all those things that weren’t really problems, but to me, they were. And I’d try to smile kindly, and I’d try to wave it off, and yea, it’d be ok.
But it wasn’t ever really ok.
Opening the car door, I could already hear the yelling. Those drunken slurs from inside the house that would make cats run away screeching, that kept us rodent free. I would get to the front of the house, and in goes the key, and I’d turn it making sure to open the door slow so they wouldn’t know I was already home.
I’d shut the door, inching it closer, closer to the frame as I dropped my things on the sofa and crept, all to quietly, the kind of quite the stairs like to bomb at, that quite that no matter what you try, every creek lets out a squeal, up to my room.
I’d open my bedroom door and close it quick, and lock it quicker, hoping beyond hope they wouldn’t come in.
Because if they did, I knew it wouldn’t be pretty.
Because if they did, I knew that one of us would be on the floor, and there wouldn’t be a door on that frame anymore.
When you’re a kid, grown ups will try to hide you away from all those little things kids aren’t suppose to see.
They’ll tell you the red on daddy’s collar was just mommy telling him goodbye. They’ll say how, when big sister is throwing up in the bathroom after she ate that brownie, it’s just because she ate to much. Perfectly normal.
They’ll tell you how, screaming and yelling and crying yourself to sleep at night, that’s all just part of growing up. That’s how mommy and daddy talk.
That’s just how it’s supposed to be.
I remember when I realized mommy and daddy weren’t just “talking” for the first time.
I was one grade below starting and we were still back in Jersey. We lived in this real old style apartment building, the kind made of bricks with neighbors that’d been around for ages.
One day, after school, I had walked upstairs and heard mommy and daddy, and they were just talking again.
I crept inside the apartment, crept past my baby brother’s room, and opened my door.
I remember looking at the Power Rangers poster on my bedroom wall, and smiling before walking in and closing it.
As time went on the talking got louder, until I heard a big thump against my door.
I opened it to see what had happened, and there laid mommy, the Power Rangers poster ripped in two.
And it was then I knew that they weren’t just talking anymore.
This guy I know, he says innocence ends when you realize you’re going to die.
I think innocence ends when you realize mommy and daddy aren’t the Power Rangers anymore.
It’s that moment when you look up at mommy and see the wrinkles in her face, or the eyes caked with mascara. It’s the moment that she isn’t the most beautiful girl in the world, most likely when she’s behind the wheel of a mini van and driving you to soccer practice.
My dad use to always start to tell me stories about when he was younger, how he had this poodle named something stupid, something I’d never expect my dad to name it.
He’d say how he use to love this poodle, how he’d bring it with him to college and fought his brother over who got to keep it, and when it died, he broke down and cried.
My dad! Crying!
But then I’d ask him more about it, and he’d always say that he’d tell me the rest when I was older, older.
But I never got old enough, not for him.
So I never heard the rest of his poodle story. And after a while, I stopped caring.
After so long, you realize its better to just walk past the ripped poster on the floor, and just not cry about it.
You realize that, it may be cold and they may be crazy, but theres always a way out.
And you realize that its almost over. You can’t change them, oh no, but you can change you.