baba and son, pt 1

I had woken up with a jolt. My eyes were tired and dry. It was six in the morning and as per usual, Baba sat on my bed egging me kindly to leave its comfort. “C’mon Ern. Today’s the big day.” I was tired and I was pissed. It was my own fault that I didn’t get adequate rest, but in the heat of the moment it didn’t matter; all I wanted was sleep. “Get the fuck out of my room.” I grunted and crashed back on to my bed. Baba snickered under his breath and did the same thing he alway did. He left for five minutes, grabbed a glass of water, and came back with my guitar. “So you think you can tell … Heaven from Hell-l-l-l … Blue skies from pain …”. Each chord progression of Wish You Were Here by Pink Floyd progressively made me more and more irritated. Baba knew exactly what would make me tick. He knew the right volume at which to play, the right giddy voice to sing in, and the right way to cheekily grin at me. I shook with frustration, banging my bed over and over, but the sound was drowned out by his folky cheers. “Fucking Hell.” I got up with haste and stormed straight to the bathroom.