just_writing | Day Two: The Drum

We used to sing carols together, before my father left us. He and mother would sing, with their arms around each other, and I would try to keep up; try to be part of their circle.

My father would start. He had his favourites, which we would join in with as quickly as possible.

*"Come they told me"*

That was my cue. "Pa-rum-pum-pum-pum" I would sing, beating in time on the floor, or with a wooden spoon on a biscuit tin.

*"A new born king to see"*

And again, I would hammer away, with more enthusiasm than rhythm. And we would go through that song, twice, three times in the evening. My father loved that carol, and I loved the ending.

I played my drum for Him
Pa rum pum pum pum
I played my best for Him
Pa rum pum pum pum,
rum pum pum pum,
rum pum pum pum
Then He smiled at me
Pa rum pum pum pum
Me and my drum

One Christmas; I think I was five, I didn't have to use a biscuit tin. My father had bought me a drum for a present. It was green and red, the colours of Christmas, and it had two drumsticks like a proper drum should. Like the drums the soldiers used to wear. When I swung it around my neck and marched up and down the hall, practicing what I imagined at the time were impressive drum rolls, my father laughed and applauded, inciting me to play longer and louder. My mother had a headache, I remember. She did not enjoy the drum, but my father spoke to her in the lounge while I was in the hall, and she went upstairs to bed for a while, and I continued my marching.

My father smiled at me; me and my drum.