he glistened white and black satin scales with transparent orange fins as I watched him swimming under golden sunlight in a Rosicrucian lily pond always playing with bubbles spilling from a triangular waterfall; sometimes I would read him stories from a book I’d always bring, sitting with him, while waiting for the others after breakfasts they’d half decide to eat. we became friends; I was four. he’d lift his head up to greet me; quite different from the others’, his eyes were human blue; anyway, he’d always kiss me on my cheek as I’d lean over to find him swimming among the rest; there you are, i’d giggle, as I’d give him crusts of toasted bread, sometimes still with butter (though my pockets got me in a lot of trouble later, “young lady, what is this sticky mess all over you?”) – and (so) as we’d begin each Sunday morning that early spring still inside of me, i think i helped him remember all those places where his journey first began as I listened to his own stories of another time I never knew.
(to be continued)
@ 02/08/2014 by KPW