Me not knowing we were talking about me. Never occurring to me that I'd be asked what's our song. Not even sure we had one, or only one, but on car rides we'd scream out the words to Bohemian Rhapsody or The Redemption Song or Green Day, Offspring, Living End, 3rd Eye Blind. We never had just one.
Music was big in our house. We'd stomp, jump, dance, needing to hold the book shelf up. We'd slam, mash pit, pogo stick, falling into each other laughing.
But he asked me what's our song.
Stray cat strut came to mind. He asked why; he'd bring her home for a visit and we'd play that song and dance around. She loved it.
He didn't understand why I said that song. I didn't understand he was asking about him and I.
I don't remember him ever asking about us.
I mean he'd ask me how I was. He'd ask about my dogs. He'd ask about my group. He never asked about us.
I'm not sure if that's because he doesn't question or think about us as an us, or perhaps there's no longer an us, or maybe there never was.
I ask about us. Was I a good? Was I hard? What was fun? What was scary? Am I too much?
I know the answers. But still I ask.
It's sad really.
That I didn't know. That I couldn't feel what he was really asking.
That I don't realize who I am to him now. I haven't known for a while.
The last time I knew we were sitting on his bed and I asked if I should leave up his flyers on the wall. He looked away from me. He looked at the wall for a silent, uncomfortable amount of beats then shook him head no. That made me smile. Because I knew how he felt about the wall.
I knew what songs he liked, his favorite bands, how he felt about his friends, his dad, our pets, his drumsticks, my pasta, his school, but I never knew how he felt about us.
That's our song.