When I'm Sixty-Four

Hold Me Tight.

Two nights before I was set to leave for America, my girlfriend at the time dragged me to her favorite club. A dirty place, grimy and full of sweaty dancers and a bad Beatles wannabe band. The lads danced with their ladies, the ladies with their lads, and anyone who wasn't paired off hadn't seemed to make it out that night. Molly kept asking me to hold her tighter, dance closer with her. And I did. I had a false idea of what love was. If you'd asked me, love was pairing off with a pretty girl, that was all there was to it. As we were walking home, with the sunlight peeking over the shoddy Liverpool houses, Molly asked me who'd take her out next week. "Better not be Phil Sculley," I said, thinking I was clever.

The next day dragged. The shipyard smelled of dead fish and smoke, as usual, and the horn signaling the end of the work day sounded. That horn was my saving grace. "Last one for a while, eh, son?" Cyril, the man who gave us our week's pay said to me, looking over his thick glasses at me, and my shabby work clothes. "Last one ever, Cyril." I replied, to which he gave a low chuckle. "I felt the same at your age," He stopped flipping through the box of envelopes to look me in the face, smiling out of the corner of his mouth. "I told m'self, 'When I'm 64, I'll be long gone from this place.'," He handed me my envelope, squinted at me. "But I'm still 'ere." His words made me laugh. I knew I'd be different. At 20, I thought that at 64, I'd be living in a big house, surrounded by my kids, with the love of my life staring right back at me. The words of my best mate Phil interrupted my vision. "Move it along! Some'f us are thirsty, and th'pubs 'ave been open five minutes."

"You're gonna miss this place." Phil told me as we were leaving the shipyard, like he knew it all. "Don' count on it, Phil."

I realized, as I was walking home and the sun was setting, that this would be the last time I'd see Liverpool like this. Hopefully, anyway. I didn't want to see it. I always saw Liverpool as too small for me. The houses, the streets, the people. All too small, too cramped, too close together. I felt I needed something bigger, something more open. When I entered my small, cramped, close together house, my mum stood in the kitchen over the ironing board. I kissed her head, dropped my messenger bag on the end table. "I've ironed y'er best shirts." She said, folding one of my only white button-ups. "I'll be shovelin' coal in a furnace, Mum. I don' think I'll be wearin' 'em." I chuckled. "You'll be wearin' 'em when y' go ashore in America." Quick as a whip, my mum. Ready to set me straight the moment I went astray. I went upstairs, began packing all of my clothing into my one suitcase. I knew my mum was distracted, no harm in slipping down into her bedroom then, right? I'd been waiting weeks to get the house alone, or get a spare minute to grab what I was after. I needed a photograph my mum kept in her hope box. A small photo of her, an absolute vision, and a soldier. The photo had been taken during the second World War, before I was born. The soldier in the photo was my father. An American soldier, who I'd never met. Went back to the states before I was born. While I told my mother I'd be finding work in America, I'd really be finding my father. Not to suddenly become a part of his life at age twenty, just... For my own personal knowledge. To get a feel of whether he was a good man. I needed to know that much. I'd gotten an address. Some university. Must be a professor, now.

Molly snuck outside my back garden that night, to spend a final few minutes with me before I set out to see in the morning. "I sometimes feel y'er not tellin' me everythin'." She said softly, like she was afraid to admit it. "I jus' need a break from the yards, Molly. I'll be back before you know it." I assured her, nose brushing against her's. She pulled away quickly, as if she was suddenly angry with me. "Or do you need a break from me? Is that wha' this is about?" She asked. I pulled her in, though for a moment she seemed reluctant. I began whispering a song to her, one my mother had sung to me, one I assumed my father sang to her. "Close your eyes, and I'll kiss y'..." I began, Molly instantly melting against me. She loved my singing, for whatever reason. "... Tomorrow I'll miss y'... An' remember I'll always be true..." She scoffed, rolled her eyes. "Pull the other one." She snapped, but I knew she wasn't really angry. I made a noise of surprise, pulled her closer. "An' then while I'm away, I'll write home everyday," She interrupted again, more serious in tone. "You better!" I chuckled. "An' I'll send all my lovin'... To you."

Before I knew it, Molly was gone, the night was gone, and I was looking over the edge of a boat at the Liverpool shoreline.