My Journey

From mind to paper and back again.

Activty 1.4 – Saturday

on October 5, 2008

 

I wish I had said that it didn’t matter, that I understood.  Of course I didn’t.  I never understood.  It was grown up talk, they said.  Something they said a lot when there was raised voices and they wanted me to go back to bed,  They told me that it didn’t concern me and that I shouldn’t worry, but I heard my name, between the shouts and I knew, that they were arguing about me, again.  I wished the shouting would stop as I dragged my tired feet back up the stairs after the long and rambled explanation about the subject and reason for their shouts – but I didn’t know what any of it meant.  They did that on purpose.  I know they did.  I turned the light off in my bedroom and the night light came on as I crawled into bed and curled up with my favourite bear.  I didn’t sleep that well that night, or the night after.  On the third night I saw my dad pack all of his clothes and things and just go, like a thief in the night, so to speak.  My mum was stood in the doorway and I can imagine the icy look on her face.  My nose was pushed against the cold glass of my bedroom window, he never looked up.  He never looked back.  It wasn’t until years later that I was told the real reason for all the arguments, when the images should have been long forgotten and no longer fresh like they actually were.  He’d been cheating on her, on me, but the image never changed.

 

One summer’s day, I remember lying outside in the back garden – on the biggest beach towel I could find of course.  Mum was on the lounger next to me in her bikini and Gran was fussing as usual.  We had a glass of chilled lemonade each as we basked in the roaring sun, mid summer was never quiet so it was nice to have some time like this with her.  We both had her books and I remember moving the towel and lounger around throughout the day to keep them out of the shadow that the house cast on the grass.  Of course mums book was more grown up than mine – it was a romance of some sort or another, I was reading yet another ‘Fear Street’ book by R. L. Stine my favourite author of the time.  I used to go to the library after school, draw one out read it within a week and go and swap it.  I’m sure I read them all.  I remember racing home after school to watch Goosebumps at four o’clock as well…

 

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