Forever in Blue Jeans

Outside the rain falls and the trees seem to dance with each other in slow unison. It's dark outside but she doesn't turn the lights on. It emulates her current mood. She plays her music and sits in silence transfixing her gaze on a blank wall a few different artists have played already. As the next track begins she realises it's the one she normally skips. Today is different. Today, she sits perfectly still with only her facial expressions changing.

It takes her somewhere far away and tears begin to prick in her eyes. She closes them, and she is transported to years ago watching herself as a child sitting on the prickly brown mottled rug that was once in her parents' house. It was right in front of the open bricked fireplace. She sees her father's collection of brass ornaments gleaming on the hearth and how she would play with them for hours. She especially liked the brass turtle, because its back used to open up and she would hide sweets in there away from her brother. Only for them to taste of Brasso later.

LA'S fine, the sun shines most of the time and the feeling is laid back.

Looking over to the sofa she sees her dad dressed in the jeans he always wore. Worn out so much his left knee was fully on show. He always paired them with a short sleeve brown and cream shirt that had diamonds in a diagonal pattern. It wasn't buttoned up, but then if it was, that would have been weird. Even on the coldest of days, he would walk round with it open, flapping everywhere. She likes what he's wearing it brings a little smile to her face he would always say:

As long as I can have you here with me, I'd much rather be forever in blue jeans.

He's sitting across from her with his legs crossed, in a way that his ankle rests on his other knee and it makes a triangle shaped hole. It leaves a gap just big enough for her younger self to fit through and she does, repeatedly, pretending to be a dolphin swimming in the ocean.

Well I'm in New York City born and raised but nowadays I'm lost between two shores

This song was one of his favourites, he would often sit watching her play whilst listening to his music. Sometimes if she wanted to watch the TV he would put his black headphone on. He would sit twirling the black thick coiled wire around his fingers, whilst bobbing his head to the beat.

I am I said to no one there and no one heard at all not even the chair.

She looks at her younger self sat watching her dad with admiration. She can hear the multiple questions she used to ask. Why are you so sad dad? Why do you do that shaky thing with your body? She knew nothing. He knew exactly why he was upset, but how could he explain it to her. She was five, way too young to understand.

I am I cried I am said I.

He wanted to tell her everything when she was older. That he was trapped in this body that didn't feel like his anymore. He was fed up with the doctors prodding and poking at him, then coming back with no solid answers. The one thing that was worse for him was he was no longer a man in his eyes and everyone else's, or so he thought.

Leaving me lonely still.

Losing consciousness was scary enough, but to come around realising you have soiled yourself must have been unbearable. She takes a sip of her drink to try and swallow her tears, or at least do something to keep them at bay. It doesn't work so she blinks them free.

If you talk about me the story is the same one.

The child she was just watching is now ten, she is singing to Billy Ocean. She used to enjoy making her dad laugh. The song was "Get Outta My Dreams, Get into My Car." She can see her dad's beaming smile, as her younger self is prancing around the living room. Pretending to grab somebody out of her head and put them in the back of an imaginary car, slamming the door (which was no mean feat), then doing a little victory dance. Such innocence at that age.

With that thought she is now thirteen in her parents' bedroom. Sitting at the dressing table using her mum's toiletries and rowing with her dad. Watching as she squares up to her dad. Flailing her arms in his face, barging past him slamming the door for effect. What she didn't see the first-time round was her dad's reaction. She stays with him, jumping with the slam, he sits down on the edge of the bed. Elbows on his knees, hands covering his face.

I'm not a man who likes to swear but I never cared for the sound of being alone.

It wasn't long before she burst back in and ran into his arms, sat cuddling him tightly. He must have known there was more to her outburst. He didn't use words, just held her tightly and stroked her head with shushing sounds. She was still sore from the night before, her so called boyfriend had ploughed her with drink and raped her. In that moment, she remembered that it had all been taken away. Later in life, she's realised that the emotional scars would run much deeper than the physical ones.

Embarrassed as another memory quickly forms. Now sixteen in a crowded street in Magaluf. Desperately trying to reach a man who's been kicked forcibly in the head by a bouncer. Her dad grabs her by the upper arm so tight it leaves a bruise. Again, a tirade of abuse solely directed at him. Surely if anyone would understand head injuries, it would be him. She just wanted to help. His grip loosens, then, smack, straight across her face. The first and last time he'd ever hit her. They look into each other's eyes, hers shocked, his regretful.

Picking up her iPod, she scrolls through her music library, listening to the distinctive clicks, then manually changes the song. Taking a deep breath, she closes her eyes and waits.

Hello again, hello just called to say hello.

She's now twenty-three dancing with her dad, at her wedding.

I couldn't sleep at all tonight and I know it's late but I couldn't wait.

She watches as he whispers 'I idolise you, I worship the ground you walk on. You have been my world since the first time I held you and you gripped my finger with your tiny little hand. You didn't want to let go, and I didn't want you to. That day I became a man. I love you, I just want you to be happy.'

We've been through it all and you love me just the same.

Twenty-eight now and newly divorced. It's Christmas eve and she has her own child now, all tucked up and asleep in bed. Looking at her aging dad sat on his TV chair, with his Baileys on ice. She sits on the arm of the chair, twirling his hair around her fingers. Finding comfort as it flicks back against her middle one. Lowering her head to his, he puts his hand on her. 'I love you' three simple words spoken only once before.

Now in a small magnolia room she's bent over a cd player setting it to play on repeat.

Maybe it's been crazy and maybe I'm to blame but I put my heart above my head.

Recalling the giddy sickly feeling she had about going to the place where her dad was, it wasn't long now. She was sitting next to him reading the newspaper out loud. Looking at the keepsakes he had there; a finger painting from her daughter, his favourite Neil Diamond CD, and her favourite picture of them both - He was sat on a white plastic chair and she was stood over him with her arms wrapped tightly around his neck. So much so, his glasses were knocked askew.

Stroking his forehead as she twirls his quiff around her fingers once more. Noticing his bushy eyebrows are out place, she licks her finger and gently flattens them, smiling as she does. She likes what he's wearing today which brings a little smile to her face as he always said:

As long as I can have you here with me I'd much rather be forever in blue jeans.

She holds her dads stone cold hand for the last time and kisses him goodbye. Freeze framing this memory in her mind, she lets out a noise of hopelessness. A noise that she's not made for a long time. A noise that nobody else hears.

And when you're not there I just need to hear

Hello