a smile to remember

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

Appears (in an edited form) in The Night Torn Mad With Footsteps
©Linda Lee Bukowski - used with permission