Closed Quarters by Angela O’Connor
I hated this time of year, early June. Because it led to July when the painful memories were brought crashing into my father’s heart again. At least that would be some emotion I guess!
Walking across our cramped yet functional bare room, I shut the lounge windows, not even glancing at the park across the way. The chorus of birds could not camouflage the silence between us. Papa and me.
Work was his life these days. When he came home he sat on that hideous leather chair and read every single word of the newspaper. The piano he bought me was supposed to be my companion. It was more like a burden. Mama was a superb pianist. She died 12 years ago.
I am not her. Indeed, I cannot even remember her. My young heart is screaming for Papa to talk with me.
‘Lucia play me a song that your mother wrote.’
‘Of course Papa.’
I knew this pleased him but he couldn’t see the tears falling down my face. As they dropped onto my gliding fingers, my heart was breaking. With both pain and pride.
Suddenly, the windows burst open from the Chicago wind.
‘You’d better go to bed Lucia.’
‘If you wish Papa’.