we had goldfish and they circled around and around
in the bowl on the table near the heavy drapes
covering the picture window and
my mother, always smiling, wanting us all
to be happy, told me, 'be happy Henry!'
and she was right: it's better to be happy if you
can
but my father continued to beat her and me several times a week while
raging inside his 6-foot-two frame because he couldn't
understand what was attacking him from within.
my mother, poor fish,
wanting to be happy, beaten two or three times a
week, telling me to be happy: 'Henry, smile!
why don't you ever smile?'
and then she would smile, to show me how, and it was the
saddest smile I ever saw
one day the goldfish died, all five of them,
they floated on the water, on their sides, their
eyes still open,
and when my father got home he threw them to the cat
there on the kitchen floor and we watched as my mother
smiled like Hillary when she saw a cigar.
4 comments:
Just when and how did this obsession start?
I made him do it.
The Bukowski estate is preparing papers as of this post.
My Dad never frosked my Mom. But they did have mock fist fights to get rid of the built up tension. He jabbed. She used the corkscrew offense.
frosk is yiddish for smack
Huh - I guess I have been using that word wrong all these years. You learn something every day.
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