Glory Days

 I was in my teens when my dad began telling me about his youth. We sat down together every once in a while in my bedroom and he talked about his life at my age. He spoke of the excitement and fun he lived back when he was my age. He’d talked about it so much that I almost grew annoyed of it. It seemed as if every time we sat down to talk heart to heart he talked about his supposed glory days. His eyes wandered as he told his stories and they sparked a mischievous spark before their flame would go out and lock with my eyes as if reminding himself that those days were over and he was married to my mother. It was the same when we would listen to my grandmother every summer when visiting. Grans would reveal old memories with the same gleam in her eye as my father did but her flame would never extinguish.  Rather it blazed on as she grew fonder of her youthful memories in her old age. I almost sensed desperation in her to relive those memories. It appeared to me as if with every day she grew older and more incapable she longed more for her youth. She longed for the thrill of the first touch of her first lover. She longed to run with her dogs Beepee and Fo on her father’s ranch. Her bones had grown too weak to ride and gallop on horseback and to feel the power in the steed’s stride. She felt forlorn by youth as she reached her 72^nd birthday. It was obvious that her reflection was the only thing that kept her calm, mature, sulky and sad. I could tell by Papa’s look that she was only in her happy moods when we were around because we were a living picture of who she used to be.

            Papa himself had never once peeped a sound about the days before he’d married Grans. Every summer I’d urge him to tell something but he would simply say no and grow moody and distraught for a moment. There was a past behind the large glasses sitting in the lazy-boy chair that I believe not even my mother knows about to this day. My grandfather never seemed to trust anyone my age including me and my sisters. I always wanted to grow closer to Papa. His history I believed was highly intriguing even though I’d never heard a word about it but “no”. One day after I’d urged him again, he finally said more than his traditional syllable.

            “Son, by telling you no, haven’t I said enough? What do you want with my history of mistakes and pain? I always hated history class, because it distracted you from the now. I’m glad to be 76 years old. I have earned every snow white hair left on this head. You want me to tell you about the time at summer camp when I was fifteen? Well instead I’ll tell you about last week when I was serving food at Jim Plummer’s Soup Kitchen. I’ll tell you about the smiles on those peoples’ faces but I’m not going to tell you about the time I got into mischief. It’s not cute or funny. It’s just flat out stupid and doesn’t help anybody.”

            With that he sat back in his chair and opened up his newspaper.

 

 Safura, Mardiahtul. "Newspaper Man." blogspot.com. Mardiahtul Safura, n.d. Web.
     5 Dec. 2013. <http://mylovelyjj.blogspot.co.il/>.