It is forenoon, the summer of the 1958. My mother just went downstairs, she says, "I won't be long; I got to wash a few clothes."
Now I raise the glass up, the fish in the glass, to be poured into the glass bowel, fish, glass, and bowel all looking at me, something distracts me, I take my eyes off for a second, just a second, a clap of an eyelid, and my eyes appeared to have went into a process of readjusting, as a result of turning them back to the: the glass, which hits the rim of the bowel, and the fish falls headfirst into the sink, and I panic, I am near hyperventilating, and I rush, rush, rush to save my goldfish, fingers all over the place, and they are squirming, sliding out of my hands: they are going to die! Death is lingering over them, and dread over me, and I'm responsible: I'm in a terror, fright, alarm...where is my guardian angel?
"Fish...all this over fish...? What's the matter with you, I thought you were dying!"
Written 9-2005; reedited, 3-2009, again in 2-2011, and once again 9-2016