Tuesday, December 20, 2011

For Billy...

My mother is a fish. I have seen fish my whole life. None are like this one. This fish rests in pine, not water. This fish is my mother; it is not my mother and it is not a fish. 
Between the pine and the water, there is a steep bank of sand. You can slide down the bank slowly, or you can jump straight down. Fish don't slide. My mother doesn't slide. I slide sometimes, but only on the bank.  There is no one looking. I slide my hand through the lid of the pine and touch her scales.
They are cold. They are not slimy. Most fish are slimy, but this one is not. This one feels like ice. Mother was not ice, but now she is ice and she stays in her box. I take my hand from the box and feel the cold on my face. The smell of the pine is strong. I don't like pine and I don't like fish.
When they call me, I hear them. The box rests and doesn't move. I don't move either. I wait for the box to move, but it is still and they are calling me. I hear my name; it is not my name.  The sun is shining, but not in the box.
The sun shines on the bank, but not in the water. They are calling me. I touch the box. It is warm on the outside, but not on the inside. The bank is warm, but the water is cold. It is cold and dark and the sun doesn't shine in the water. The water is deep at the bottom of the bank.  I'm sliding down the bank.
I will feel the water soon. I will be a fish, too. Someday.

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