Filled with fish-bonding, and thoughts of oddities.

It’s strange, and -- when I gave it some thought -- hypocritical, even.

The father was away on outstation, and on the night before he left, shortly after I made him iced coffee, he looked into my eyes and said;

“Take care of the fishes while I’m away. And water the plants, or they’ll go chao tarr.”

I nodded, taking note that he placed the fishes’ importance over the plants, for my mental hierarchical chart of Things to Do and Bloody Hell Done Right.

“Feed them every 2 days, and clean out the turtles’ and the big pot.” I nodded, adding side- notes and making a huge circle over “Turtles, and Big Pot”. Then I spent the next couple of second trying to look like I’ll get it done, truth to honest, honest to good; because the father seemed to be rather ponderous and, in another perspective, especially mine, terrifying. I retreated to the room, and stamped a red URGENT sign over the mental chart.

Dad probably spent both flights composing and rehearsing the things to say to me should I fail. I don’t assume it; I feel it like the strands at the back of my neck, prickling over some invisible apparition (Tingling! Tingling!).

I think I did a good job, as far as my other jobs are concerned.

The thing is, it’s rather leisurely if I did all the feeding and cleaning and water-refilling without the father perpetually looking over the shoulder, barking tips and orders and insults (a rather common, and already stale, occurrence); in fact, getting it done over music and a peculiar affinity to scare the fishes silly, makes it rather nice.

I named the alligator gar Gary.

The goldfish in the fountain pot, I named him Fugly.

The turtles are now named Leo and Raph.

Feeding Gary is like watching National Geographic. You can even add your Steve Irwin voice-overs.

Look at her, what a beauty! And here she comes, eyeing the small little fishes, and WHACK! Look at the size of that mouth. And the teeth; see how she grabs and BANG! Fishies’ a goner.

Don’t get me wrong, though. Given the chance, I’d rid of the fishes and the turtles in a flash. Pour them down the drain or see them swim in a pot over a nice fire. Maybe I’ll keep Gary, but just so I can see him feed over the smaller fishes. But still, I see the appeal; if I’ll ever live to become old and lonely, routinely feeding fishes and occasionally cleaning them out (over music) can be very relaxing.

(I doubt my dad will appear and nag me behind the ear, and say how I never remember the positions of the aquarium decors).

********

Like the fantasies I told, I always thought you’d be a dreamer.

You’d dream and believe and persevere, when the world turned desolate, left you alone, tell you lies and truths and stories about ‘reality’.

Thinking back, weren’t you one? A dreamer. A sailor on a solitary yacht, with a sail as large as imagination, heading into that horizon believing in treasures and sea monsters. Adventure and friendship. Love.

But I guess the world caught up. I guess there’s no good running, really. It always catches you.

I wonder what really happened.

I wonder what you made happened.

But I guess, in truth, I just wanted to know what you’re feeling. Pain? Anguish? Hurt?

Loneliness?

What happened was, I stopped assuming. I’d wonder, but never assume. I’d imagine if it was true; I guess that’s what you call empathy. But I’d stop, because that’s not knowing. That’s just standing and watching at a distant, seeing things as a dot. What moves or didn’t, I wouldn’t know.

I don’t think I’ll ask.

I don’t think I’ll dare.

The most I’ll do is wish you luck. Pray that you’ll be fine. Which you will be, surely, knowing you to that extent.

Maybe I’ll hope you’ll become a dreamer. If you were ever one, perhaps you’ll be.

Maybe I’ll say hi one day.