I remember when...

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
“I remember when rock was young, me and Susie had so much fun” traveles up the grey carpet stairs.

Submitted: January 13, 2011

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Submitted: January 13, 2011

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“I remember when rock was young, me and Susie had so much fun” traveles up the grey carpet stairs. Through the old white wood banister I see the dusty amp and twisted chords. The neck of a guitar protruded from the space behind the door. I close my eyes and I am down there, sitting at his feet, smelling the dust of the amp and watching his fingers fly over the strings of the pearl white fender. I remember my dad playing guitar.
I remember my perch on the beat up chair that serves as a piano bench. It is covered in flecks of blue and purple paint, evidence of rooms being painted long ago. The old, upright piano was worn, with chips falling off the ornate carvings on the front. A pair of bongo drums serves as a prop to keep the front up as I watch in amazement as my finger pressing a key causes a hammer to hit the hidden strings. I remember the hours of practice.
I remember the distinctive smell of the old yellowing dresser. When I was little, it reached my shoulder, now it would hardly reach my waist. On top was a fish tank, with green rocks and foliage. The paper backing of an underwater paradise was peeling off the back, held on with double stick tape. When I put my finger in the top the fish suck on my fingers. I remember my fish named Angel.
I remember the circus act played on the wrong side of the banister. Barely three inches stood out for me to stand on. What’s more fun to a child that making a simple trip up the stairs challenging and fun? I never imagine the danger, at the furthest almost a twenty foot fall. But everything is fun when you’re a trapeze artist. I remember climbing up the wrong side of the stairs.
I remember the tree house in the back yard. Built to last with the knowledge of an engineer, the best way to make them. A flimsy plank connected it to the rickety tree house next door. More rudimentary, but making the pair all the more exciting. A sharpie and a boring summer night and the houses were memories, our secrets literally written on the walls. And batman screwed to the windowpane. I remember the old tree house.
I remember my neighbors, no friends, no cousins, no brothers. No, blood doesn’t matter, not for us. The short black hair and ever present smiles. The low simple happiness of two boys, frozen in my memories as no older than thirteen. Lemon aid stands and bike races. Sledding and snow men. The times hiding in the back yard that felt like they would never end. They did. I remember Casey and Harry.
I remember the gang. The different families, the big Nick and little Nick, big Jeff and little Jeff. Now both the littles surpassed the bigs, they are barley recognizable now. The girl with the name like a jewelry store, stopping by now and then. The little kids who annoyed us, but we knew they would carry on what we did, so we took them in, taught them the games and promised our yard to always be base. I remember the neighborhood kids.
“I can still remember how that music used to make me smile” echoes off the new wood stairs. I look down through the new geometric banister and see the neck of a guitar. It’s not past my bedtime anymore, I have grown. I can make my own decisions. But I choose to close my eyes and imagine myself as a child, sitting on the carpet, crossed legs, playing with the tangled chords and smelling the ever dusty amp. Listening to my father play guitar. I remember my dad playing guitar.


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