It was an occasion, rather one would think to label it that way or not.
At this point, I am not sure if I should have taken it as a sign of her achieving another gain of independence, or her just being a small girl who was frightened by what she found.
All I know is that she didn't come running or crying. She didn't come at all. Not even a holler that morning when she found her ugly goldfish floating limply at the top of her fishbowl. I had bought that glass bowl for her on her birthday along with some colorful pebbles, a castle that looked like the one in Disney, and (obviously) a fish.
She had ran to her room to change out of her Little Miss Sunshine pajamas and into clothes for school while I made pancakes and poured her a glass of soy milk. No reason for her to know that her milk was not quite as conventional and cow produced as all the other little girls' glasses of milk. I've been on a health kick.
Five-year-olds are not necessarily known for being quick at changing outfits, but it was normal for them to insist upon doing it themselves, so I didn't argue anymore and just took it as another loss as a mother when she started demanding she goes and does it herself. I tried to leave her clothes in matching pairs in her dresser, but she was prone to ignoring this and coming out of her bedroom in some insane, mismatching attire. It didn't hurt my feelings anymore when she denied my help – always having to figure it out herself.
When five minutes rolled by, I called her, waited, called again. Five more minutes. The pancakes on her plate were losing steam. I kicked off my slippers and went to find her.
There she stood in the bedroom, staring at the corpse of her first pet. Her face seemed pale and her eyes were wide. I picked up her PJ's which were scattered on the floor and threw them in the pink hamper. She was shirtless, the top of choice being squeezed in her small fists (a floral yellow tee-shirt that was apparently supposed to look right with the long, purple-striped skirt that she had slipped into)!
“Oh honey, I'm sorry,” I said. I put a hand on her shoulder, almost trying to pull her out of the staring match with her late fish.
“What is wrong with Bubba?” She asked in her small voice. She craned her neck to look at me.
“He is just taking a really long nap,” I replied, not sure how to go about this. I wouldn't do what my parents did. Pretend there is no such thing as death until somebody close dies (my sister, in that case. I was only ten and I had no clue what had happened or how to react).
“Well, when will he wake up?” She asked, that attitude of hers giving her a tone.
“He won't, sweetie. He's dead. He is not going to wake up.” I kept my voice low, gentle, but not to the point of scaring her. Not signaling to her that something catastrophic may have happened.
“Oh,” she mumbled and stared blankly again. “Dead. What do we do with him?”
“A funeral.” It was more of a question, a request, on my part.
“What?”
“We say goodbye,” I said, my mind cursing Bubba and his little fishy body for kicking the bucket. I wanted to take the dead thing and throw it out into the street. The only thing that stopped me was considering that she might see it when she walked to school with the, “Car pool on foot,” group that came by every weekday.
I helped her into her shirt, glad that she let me, and led her into the kitchen and told her to eat her pancakes while I got us, “ready,” for the ceremony.
I came back in a couple minutes, she hadn't touched anything. Just kind of looked at it in contempt. “Eat,” I said firmly, motherly.
She gave me a look then scrunched up her nose, “I don't like this milk.”
“That's all you get. Drink it.”
She whined loudly, obnoxiously, but did as she was told, swallowing a couple mouthfuls. She took one bite of her pancake and, without missing a beat, asked about Bubba.
I sighed, “Come on.”
She followed me to the bathroom where I had set Bubba in his bowl on the counter. I grabbed a book of matches out of the high shelf in the cabinet and lit the candle that I had placed next to the sink the day me and her had finished painting the bathroom ourselves.
“What do we do, momma?” She asked.
“Watch, honey.” I slowly, tenderly, dumped the contents of the bowl into the toilet until Bubba plopped in. I was sure to stop before any of the rocks started to spill out. For just a second, I thought Bubba came back to life as he swirled around in the toilet water. He hadn't.
I wonder if she saw what I did and thought he came back as a zombie as I had, if only for a second.
“Tell Bubba goodbye,” I said softly, putting a hand on her shoulder again. My thumb rubbed her neck.
In the kitchen, some of the color had returned to her cheeks, though it disappeared once more when we got to that point, leaving her pasty as we stood uncomfortably in the cramped, lavender restroom of our three bedroom home.
“Goodbye, Bubba.” She said it flatly.
I waited, she spoke no further.
“That it?” I asked.
“Yeah.”
“Okay.” I bit my lip. “Goodbye, Bubba. You were a good little goldfish. We will miss you dearly.” I was glad she didn't know what sarcasm was yet.
I flushed the toilet.
She leaned over and looked beyond the porcelain rim and watched in awe as her fish was caught in the current, being violently jerked around before the flow sucked it away.
She kept her eyes there with that sickly expression long after Bubba was gone, the toilet bowl had refilled, and the hiss it made afterward had hushed.
“The group will be here soon and you can't be late. Lets go,” I prodded, grabbing her hand and coaxing her away.
She looked to the bathroom as we went down the hall.
It wasn't until later that day did it occur to me that she did not cry at all when her fish died. That was odd within itself, because I had raised a crybaby. I hated thinking about how drained her features were as she stared at the dead thing. Had I done wrong, trying to open the idea of death to her small mind?
Luckily, she ran in the house smiling and excited after school, giving me a hug and babbling about her day. I really thought everything could return to normal after the morning fiasco.
It seemed normal. Maybe she didn't think about what it was she couldn't comprehend.
Though, I finally noticed a few days later that she didn't go past the bathroom without giving it a thoughtful look and that new habit lasted for weeks.
She was still my little girl and she continued to progress in independence as much as she had when she was a baby, opening her green eyes for the first time and looking at me with a mysterious sort of silent appreciation. The only difference was, after the loss of Bubba, she had matured in a way I had not expected and could not protect her from. Hell, I don't even think there was a way to comfort her when it came to the inevitable cycle of life and death. So instead, I continued to pour her soy milk in the morning, think about her during the day, greet her after school, give her baths every Sunday night.
Though it was originally my “genius” that brought it to light, it had become an unspoken law that neither of us so much as mentioned getting any sort of new pet. At least not yet. Let the idea really sink in that everything dies. I was worried that she would not be able to get close to an animal again. Traumatized. Always hesitating to consider when a creature will get its turn to go down the toilet before she really acknowledges it.
In the end of it, I decided we were both acting ridiculous, though more idiotic on my side because I was thirty four years old. No excuse for living life around such a silly fear.
I bought her a cat. An orange one that liked to take naps in the sun and chase invisible prey. We named it Berry. I don't know why. I think she got the idea from a cartoon show.
The skepticism was discouragingly evident at first. She wouldn't touch it. Wouldn't let it be in the same room as her. Wouldn't coo to it. I tried to rationalize. Maybe we was scared of cats. Maybe the fur made her sneeze. Maybe she had wanted a puppy because that is what all the other girls her age had.
But then one miraculous day (a Monday), I went into her room to wake her up for school and there was the cat, sprawled out next to her on the comforter while she affectionately scratched its ears, gaining purrs and the writhing of a content kitty.
I watched for a moment, this peculiar relief washing over me. At least now I knew, in some situations, she could heal on her own, another stride in her independence. Another maternal duty ripped away from me, but I didn't care this time. I told her to get dressed and asked if she wanted Rice Squares or Rice Crisps for breakfast. No sugary marshmallows or artificial berry cereal in my house.
Fin (jk). wahmbulance wahmbulance wahmbulance
ShinyFire Community Member 
|
|
