| I can remember being seven years old
|
| Having goldfish that circled around in a bowl
|
| I would watch the forest burn and listen to the wind blow
|
| I remember the table, the drapes, and the window
|
| The dark brown everything, decoration, styling
|
| Most of all, I can remember my mother smiling
|
| Worn out and faded, my hometown was scrappy
|
| More than anything, she wanted us to be happy
|
| Little to eat and back and forth to the hospital
|
| She was right, it’s better to be happy if possible
|
| But the old man was under attack and was weak
|
| And continued to beat us several times a week
|
| He lived like a king even though we were piss poor
|
| I tried to be strong and careful what I wished for
|
| My outside ached, my inside stung
|
| The long leather belt had replaced his tongue
|
| Not knowing how to run or how to hit the brakes
|
| A white picket fence was built around a pit of snakes
|
| Both a wonder and frightening, the thunder and lightning
|
| These were the sounds and sights of a thousand fights
|
| My mother, the poor fish, staging eternal
|
| Charades and parades for the raging inferno
|
| Wanting to be happy, beaten all the while
|
| Asking me always, why don’t you ever smile
|
| And she’d show me how to do it, mother and wife
|
| It was the saddest smile I ever saw in my life
|
| It hurt worse than death but for her sake I tried
|
| And one day all of those goldfish died
|
| Hurricane, forest fire, out of control
|
| Eyes open, floating on the water in the bowl
|
| And when my father came home, he walked through the door
|
| And threw those fish to the cat on the kitchen floor
|
| And the wind died too and I was still a child
|
| And the three of us watched as my mother smiled |