Generations

Sarah’s emerald blue tear-filled eyes glistened in the dark as her grandma narrated the sketchy remains of her memories from her childhood.  

Dad arrived home well past midnight. Asleep, dreaming and awake at the same time, I felt dad kicking our front door open as mum’s tired eyes struggled to stay awake waiting for him. He was piss drunk. Nothing unusual about it. He was hungry, angry and fuming as he slammed the alarm clock across mum’s face. I quivered and rolled into a ball, tightly shutting my eyes and ears, praying and hoping that my dream would out shadow my wakefulness. A smashed plate and a screaming wail tailed off as I lost myself in an impossible reverie.

Adam was the sweetest thing. His delightful looks. The Sunday roasts and breakfasts in bed. The silly post-it notes on the fridge. The contagious laughs. And. The smile.

Sarah smiled back. 

The men folk will pay for the man’s deeds.

3 minutes to go

6:27 PM. 3 more minutes for the warden to blow the whistle to announce the end of play for the day. We have been on the court from just after 4 PM that afternoon. Even after two and half hours of play the score was only 87:83. We were 83. It was one of those hot and humid afternoons when the ball missed the basket more often than it usually did. Was it the scorching sun that burnt our scalps or was it the rain of sweat that slipped the ball off our hands? Or was it just the length of the game that made us all arch backwards and sling at the board? The coach would have certainly screamed his lungs out at every one of us for the entire duration of the game.

3 minutes to go. 5 more to win the game. Three of my team have already given up. Hands on the hips and hands on the knees are tell-tale signs of having accepted defeat.

They looked drained as well. But they also had that undertone of confidence that suggested that they expected to win the game. They are going to defend. That is what they are going to do. That is if we tried to score. But they are only half expecting it.

It was a non-descript afternoon. We will play against the same team again tomorrow afternoon. The coach is not around to judge, scream and yell. No one will remember this game in a week’s time. Did it really matter that we win this game?

A steady trickle of sweat blinded the eye. The back of the throat tasted of iron as the lungs gasped for air. The head felt dizzy and light.

3 minutes to go. 5 more to win the game.