Watch You Cry
O O 5
It all became routine for the years ahead. Every birthday would be spent with family so distant I couldn't even recall names. My mother would shed a few tears during the day, then as night came a waterfall would fall tragically from her eyes. She would wail things like, 'Another year' and, 'Not enough time.'
Eventually things would go back to being quiet and I would sit in my room, looking at the blank walk and sighing every so often.
I remember one night when my mother came in and gave me a photo album, filled to the brim with pictures of her and my father when they were younger. Nearing the end of the worn, old album were a few photos of the three of us, me as a toddler, happy. We were all so happy in the pictures, and I remember think, 'Where did all the happiness go?'. Flicking back and forth through the photos and seeing all the smiles almost let a small smile creep upon my own lips. Almost.
The very last photo was of my small family standing in a living room. I was propped up on my father's hip as he and my mother stared at each other with small grins on their faces.
That night, at the vulnerable age of fifteen, I came to the harsh conclusion that seemed to swim around my mind vigourously.
The happiness that was once in my mother's eyes, the happiness you could once capture in a picture, the happiness that was once in my like, was buried deep beneath the ground, along with my father's body.
Eventually things would go back to being quiet and I would sit in my room, looking at the blank walk and sighing every so often.
I remember one night when my mother came in and gave me a photo album, filled to the brim with pictures of her and my father when they were younger. Nearing the end of the worn, old album were a few photos of the three of us, me as a toddler, happy. We were all so happy in the pictures, and I remember think, 'Where did all the happiness go?'. Flicking back and forth through the photos and seeing all the smiles almost let a small smile creep upon my own lips. Almost.
The very last photo was of my small family standing in a living room. I was propped up on my father's hip as he and my mother stared at each other with small grins on their faces.
That night, at the vulnerable age of fifteen, I came to the harsh conclusion that seemed to swim around my mind vigourously.
The happiness that was once in my mother's eyes, the happiness you could once capture in a picture, the happiness that was once in my like, was buried deep beneath the ground, along with my father's body.
♠ ♠ ♠
I'm aware of how grim this last line is. I'm also aware of how happy your comments make me and how I am updating far too often, because I'll run out of pre-writes.