After you took your life, Mom gave me your goldfish bowl.
You filled it with shells and stones and one silver medallion, and everything in the tank was balanced just so. A large moon snail shell sat by the front, bottom left, upon two flat stones. These assorted tide-swept artifacts were once scattered across your table. I could imagine you working with thoughtful intention while Fela Kuti’s singing sailed through your stereo speakers.
I carried the bowl gingerly back to my house and placed it on the kitchen table. Soon I knew how to carefully touch one of the shells with just my fingertip, without disturbing the arrangement. And I would think, “We’re close to each other again.”
So much beauty in one bowl. Concentric ridges in the clam shells resembled whipped cream spread on a tiny pie. Gray stones mottled with black and silver shimmered in the sunlight.
So much weathering in one bowl. Cockle shells and jingle shells sported jagged holes in their middles from tumultuous journeys throughout the ocean. Chipped sandstone and dented quartz pebbles left their imprints on the soft, wet sandy shore.
You filled the goldfish bowl with splendor and brokenness.
Your name means “of the sea.”
I was your five-year-old sister who stopped building with blocks to listen admiringly to your rendition of your favorite song from our “Oliver!” album. You were a high school senior busy taking a bath or looking for your denim bell bottoms in the drawer.
“Who will buy this wonderful morning?
Such a sky you never did see.”
Then I would hear the clunking of your clogs as you ran downstairs to make breakfast.
“Who will tie it up with a ribbon and put it in a box for me.”
My brother and I liked to sit in front of the record player console and play someone’s Cat Stevens album, Teaser and the Firecat. It may have been yours or another sister’s. We wondered about the painting on the album cover. Who was this little person sitting on the curb? Why was he wearing a top hat? We played “Moonshadow” over and over again. As I grew older, especially in my college years, it was always a comforting song for me because it reminded me of the liveliness of our house generated from kinship, friendships, storytelling, and even arguments. I never really thought what the song meant to you.
I’m remembering the times we laughed with you and when we felt electrically charged by your brightness. That surreal night at the country store, Zern’s, you and I rummaged through the flea market and stalls of memorabilia. You made me forget my inhibitions as you put a stone gargoyle and a ceramic rabbit in our shopping basket. Later, in the parking lot, you decided to recline a la Grande Odalisque on the hood of our brother’s Ford Crowne Victoria as he slowly drove around in circles. We stood, enamored by your fearlessness and comedic timing.
You picked me up in the morning with one of your friends to take me for a ride in your inflatable motor boat down the river. I sat upright and rigid, feeling a bit agoraphobic, and you navigated the waters and my nervousness with caring prowess. Soon I was euphoric and mesmerized by the lull of the current and verdant meadows dotted with wildflowers. You pulled into a dock and we found a hotel bar for a late afternoon cocktail.
When you moved to the country, I visited you with my little boys and husband. You showed me the herbs that you were growing from seed and the hostas by the front porch. My youngest fell into a patch of stinging nettle and you held him in your lap and showed him spiral designs on your computer. He still remembers how you softly talked to him about the colorful images and shapes, making the stinging of the nettle magically disappear.
After you died, one of our sisters brought me day lilies from your garden. My husband’s sisters were visiting us, and they helped me plant them in the front and sides of the yard. Day lilies are perennials, and when they are in full bloom, they reflect a kind of buoyancy and exuberance. They flower for just a short time.
Your sadness was so unrelenting and painful.
You sang of the wonderful morning a long time ago. That’s what you left for us. You are that morning with the brilliant sky. You are.
You collected shells and stones from your travels. Shells and stones that took a transformative journey. You are from their waves. You are.
You are the gold and sunset red day lily that lets me know it’s July, the time of your birthday. You are.
Author: Celia de la Cruz
Author Email: [email protected]
Author Bio: Celia de la Cruz, a teacher and former editor at an academic press, writes about literacy and identity studies, outdoor education, and stories from her childhood and adolescence. Her work has appeared in Vine Leaves Literary, Filipinas Magazine, and NewsWorks. She loves the sound of katydids and screech owls.
