porter_inc (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
porter_inc) wrote2007-01-13 05:54 am
porter_inc) wrote2007-01-13 05:54 am
Topic 161. The Morning After
The Morning After
That's a song by Maureen McGovern from The Poseidon Adventure. It won an Oscar for Best Song and became a hit the summer after I was born. Much like Eric Cartman from South Park, I know the whole song and can sing it for you any time you'd like to hear my butchered rendition. Mom used to play it so much when I was growing up, I didn't really have much choice but to learn it by heart.
When I was 10, I asked Mom why she listened to it so often, and she told me that if I really listened to the words, I'd find hope in them. The moment I did that, I understood. Mom clung to that song the way I used to cling to my favorite teddy bear - the one with the missing eye and torn ear I'd never let her fix. It was her comfort whenever my father would dole out his "punishment." The mornings he would leave for work and I would have to get myself off to school, I knew it was because he'd been too rough with her the night before. I could hear the muted strains of the song coming from their room, and if I pressed my ear to the door, I could hear Mom crying. She never wanted me to see her cry, so I would leave without saying goodbye. I knew that she would be having a particularly bad day if I still heard the song playing when I came home. On those days, I would go into her room and curl up on the bed next to her. We wouldn't ever talk about it, and we would always be up and have dinner ready before Dad came home.
When I got married, the one thing I insisted on was that the song Mom and I danced to be The Morning After. No one understood why we hadn't chosen a more traditional song for the occasion, and Talia continued to voice her displeasure long after the reception had ended. I never felt the need to explain myself to her, though.
The day Dad died, I left work and rushed home to be with Mom. Dad had suffered a massive coronary while he was changing a light bulb in the hall closet. It had been quick, and no manner of life saving measures would have saved him. He was probably dead before he hit the ground, they said. When I arrived at the house, the coroner had just left, and Mom was sitting in the living room, a glass of Dad's favorite scotch in her hand. She asked me to play that song for her, and for the first time in my life, when I looked at her face as it played, I saw hope.
That's a song by Maureen McGovern from The Poseidon Adventure. It won an Oscar for Best Song and became a hit the summer after I was born. Much like Eric Cartman from South Park, I know the whole song and can sing it for you any time you'd like to hear my butchered rendition. Mom used to play it so much when I was growing up, I didn't really have much choice but to learn it by heart.
When I was 10, I asked Mom why she listened to it so often, and she told me that if I really listened to the words, I'd find hope in them. The moment I did that, I understood. Mom clung to that song the way I used to cling to my favorite teddy bear - the one with the missing eye and torn ear I'd never let her fix. It was her comfort whenever my father would dole out his "punishment." The mornings he would leave for work and I would have to get myself off to school, I knew it was because he'd been too rough with her the night before. I could hear the muted strains of the song coming from their room, and if I pressed my ear to the door, I could hear Mom crying. She never wanted me to see her cry, so I would leave without saying goodbye. I knew that she would be having a particularly bad day if I still heard the song playing when I came home. On those days, I would go into her room and curl up on the bed next to her. We wouldn't ever talk about it, and we would always be up and have dinner ready before Dad came home.
When I got married, the one thing I insisted on was that the song Mom and I danced to be The Morning After. No one understood why we hadn't chosen a more traditional song for the occasion, and Talia continued to voice her displeasure long after the reception had ended. I never felt the need to explain myself to her, though.
The day Dad died, I left work and rushed home to be with Mom. Dad had suffered a massive coronary while he was changing a light bulb in the hall closet. It had been quick, and no manner of life saving measures would have saved him. He was probably dead before he hit the ground, they said. When I arrived at the house, the coroner had just left, and Mom was sitting in the living room, a glass of Dad's favorite scotch in her hand. She asked me to play that song for her, and for the first time in my life, when I looked at her face as it played, I saw hope.