The Sound of Water

Back then, I was only as tall as an adult’s waist. Mother held my hand as we walked outside a mall. The sunlight was a little blinding, a smell I could not quite name wavered in the air. People hurried to get inside, the damp heat made the whole street walk slowly.

On the other side of the road, several fish tanks were stacked together. I heard the sound of a stream slip through conversations, footsteps, and brush lightly past my ear.

I let go of Mother’s hand, threaded my way between the adults’ hips and legs, and hurried toward that water.

Glass, water, and air shared one color. Sunlight was kneaded to pieces in the water, clinging to the floating bodies, orange-red leaves of flame.

From the end of one body trailed something translucent, like plastic film in the last second before fire melts it. It spread open, slowly swaying. So slowly it did not seem to be swimming, only drifting.

“This is a goldfish.” Mother’s voice was soft.

I had heard the word, but had never put it together with these bodies before me.

Goldfish.

I said it again in my mind.

The light on their bodies brightened and dimmed. That translucent thing was still in the water, slowly opening, slowly closing.