Not exactly

The women sat side by side in the car, as driver and passenger.  It was a role reversal, and a shifting of the generational tides that not everyone was comfortable with accepting. 

Although it was useless to resist, it was still there.  The tension.  The involuntary give and take, like stomping the break pedal after speeding along the highway to take a sudden turn, it did come with a mild form of whiplash.  

The situation was not impossible.  Just difficult.

“I think you want me to have a hard life,” the daughter spewed, unable to control the animal that was her tongue.  Her knuckles gripped the steering wheel and she exhaled.  A slow and measured breath.

The animal was contained once more while its owner ground her back teeth together and focused on the road ahead.

“Why do you think I am here? I want you to have everything.  Why do you think I spoil you?  I don’t want you to have to suffer.  If I could take away all the things that are hard, I would, to make your life easier, not harder.”

The driver stared forward, still grinding her teeth, as fields of green whizzed past and a baby slept in the back.

Mr. Fish

Mr. Fish is resting on his side in his leaf hammock.  His long, blue tail drapes over the edge, waving ever so slightly in the water, as his gills open and close.

A week earlier, a young, pear-shaped salesman overheard me laugh as we passed the fish section and asked, “A leaf hammock?  Does a fish need a hammock?”

The nosy salesman sidled up next to us and exclaimed, “I assure you, it’s an absolute must have for any betta tank.”

He looked around for other blue vests and finding none, he lowered his voice and whispered, “My boss has two betta fish and they each have their own hammock.  They love the hammocks.  Wait here, I’ll get you what you need.”

And he was off in a flash, sashaying down the aquarium supply aisle before we could even confirm that we wanted a fish.

Meanwhile, the baby gazed ahead at the tanks of bright fish, swimming in small, disorganized schools under weird florescent lighting.  He looked up at the harsh lights overhead and down the aisle behind us.  He kicked his feet, unused to wearing socks and socks, and started to squirm.

In a few minutes, the salesman returned with a handful of merchandise, dropping each item into the cart as he named it off in a roll call of aquatic gear.

“Here is the leaf hammock, medicine, in case your fish gets sick, water conditioner, special betta food and this…”

He saved the best for last.  Between his delicate fingers, he held up a green, fuzzy ball encased in clear, hard plastic.

“It’s faux,” he explained, “but no one will ever know.”

He noticed my questioning look as he went on to explain, “It’s a moss ball, you know, to help with the bacteria.”

“Shouldn’t I just get a live one?” I questioned like a silly layperson.

“Oh no,” the salesman/resident fish expert assured me. “The live ones are already filled with bacteria; this one will give you a fresh start.  You know, to help with the bacteria.”

In retrospect, we should have left and come back when we had time to be thoughtful, intentional and to read the information on the back of the packaging.

Instead, I said, “Sounds great, thanks so much. This is just what we needed.”

We picked a sad looking fish in a cup with barely enough room to turn and checked out, ending our impulse-buying-mission-of-mercy and headed home to introduce Mr. Fish to Ms. Kitty with high hopes of friendship