“Goldfish, dying!” [l958]

She went down stairs. My mother says, “I won’t be long, I got to wash a few cloths.”

I’m at the sink, cleaning out my fish bow.

Grandpa is outside, trimming the lilac bushes, my brother is someplace with his new go-cart. I’m cleaning the glass, the fish bowel that is; taking the rocks out: replacing the water, cleaning the rocks, and I look at my goldfish in the glass bowel—in the sink, in the kitchen. It is forenoon, summer the of 1958; I’m eleven-years old.

Now I got everything ready: the new water, and the rocks are back into the bowel, and I’m—I’m about to put my goldfish back into the bowl: slowly I pick it up, pickup my glass with the fish in it, my intentions are to drop the fish in the rounded top (the hole) of the bowel, but I got to do it quickly once I’m ready; and I’m already to pour the fish, yes I say again to myself: I got to do it quickly, the fish is feisty, a quick witted fish, I think it is—quicker than me, and I get the notion it does not like its environment right now in that glass, so I left the glass up and as I started to pour the water in the glass, with the fish in it, into the glass bowel, with the fish, the hole of the bowel looking at me, the glass hits the rim, the rim of the glass bowel and the fish falls head first into he sick, and I panic, and I panic, and I rush, rush, rush to save my goldfish: I’m in a panic, panic, panic…god, what can I do…

do… [?] I scream: “Mom…mom…my fi…as..fa…s…help!!”

My mother runs up the stairs. Her face is not calm, and sullen, her eyes brooding and alert—within them I can see trouble for me: her expression is sudden, intent and concerned. My eyes are like marbles, the fish is in the sink wiggling all about, it might go down into the drain (I tell myself): I stutter, my words are not coming out right—I look at her and the fish: her and the fish: her and the fish. My mother says:

“Fish…what fish… are you talking about!~? What’s the matter, are you hurt?” She looks in the sink, at me, at the fish in the sink, at me, grabs the fish, puts it into the fish bowel, so easy, too easy (I’m thinking, why I couldn’t do that).

“Explain to me what is the emergency for you to be screaming so loud?—the fish?” she asked staring into my marble eyes, with her sudden, intent and lack of concerned eyes now. I think she knows it’s the fish, and I overreacted.

“I couldn’t get the fish…it was, was, was..go,gooo…ing to go down the drain, I thought I was ga-going to kill it, I mean, it was going to die in the drain…I got…I couldn’t get it, it would stop breathing...”

“Do you want me to have a heart attack,” she said now, with a civil voice: no more concern, no more anger, just a sigh of relief, and a time for explaining.

“Not again, does not call me up these stairs to get another fish again, next time…just make sure there is not a next time, ok?”

“Yes,” I said, and then was tongued tied, as I looked at my fish swimming around safely in my fish bowel, and my mother walking down the steps. Was it worth it—Yes, I think so (but I’m sorry I caused her to think the worse had happened to me: but what are mothers for?). Did I ever do it again—never.

See Dennis' web site: http://dennissiluk.tripod.com

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