Falling Cards
We all sat at the table patiently waiting for our fourth party to arrive for our Sunday night pastime. My father, the fourth party, entered the room with cards in hand and a grim look upon his face, the game had begun. The game always seemed to bring upon a sense of enjoyment for Mom and Dad but, not that night, and not for several weeks before. Molly and I had pretended that nothing unusual was going on, but we knew, we both knew. My parents frequently fought and if they were not fighting, then they were in their own personal solitude. Molly and I had learned long before that night that silence was sometimes better than sounds, we did not say much that night. Tension was something that was common in a room with my family in it. We were all standing in a balloon and I knew it was about to burst. It was several Sunday evenings later and, unlike the past few Sundays the house was loud with chat
My Mother knew not what to say so in pure confusion she fled the room in agonizing tears and Molly, my dear sister, didn't say anything, she silently walked out of the house, without a word, no one cared. Dad stared aimlessly at what had to be beyond the white washed wall behind me, he was in a world that allowed him to escape the pain of this heart wrenching subject, their divorce. We had always had time to play; we would always meet there at the table at night's break, but not that Sunday. I think that my pain came not from their divorce but, from my expectations of them, I thought my parents were perfect. Dad picks me up on Friday night and there are no more card games with the family, no more arguments, no more pretending. I walked down the stairs following my parents attempting to listen to their whispers; I could not make out their wording. I look at how we lived those last months of their marriage and how we all live now, although we are no longer together we are all happier with our lives, ourselves, and each other. I tried my hardest to understand why this was happening, sure they had a few fights but isn't that what love is, or is it. I understand that my parents are not perfect, I understand that my parents are human. Molly was in her room, Mom was doing laundry, Dad had "things to do" and I sat at the wooden lonely table, shuffling the worn ripped cards. Mom and Dad had gotten into a fight that was a little larger than normal and I thought it was over, but no it was still lingering around the house. I tried to ignore its distinct smell, I just could not seem to, something was about to go wrong and I felt the sadness it would bring. My Dad began hesitantly, almost as though he did not want to tell us everything. His face became more obscured with tears as he told us of their divorce. Mom and Dad approached Molly and I in late night for a family meeting.
Common topics in this essay:
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,
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