Birthmark

Arboretum

 Arboretum Maybe the great tragedy of my childhood is that I could never keep a fish alive for longer than a week. On Sunday, I’d slide a blade on the cheek of a bag & watch everything empty into a round, glass bowl: water, fish, & beige strands that rose when each suddenness rippled from its body. By Thursday, the fish would stay still longer than usual, & by Saturday, the inevitable. It happened many times. Gold ones with flecks of maroon in the shape of Virginia would disappear behind the film of their eyes, & the silver & black ones, they became a night full of stars. In college, I watched a performance of Romeo & Juliet in the clearing of an arboretum. I had brought someone with me. She knew nothing about the fish. We were just starting to date, though as I listened to the play, I knew we would never die together. Sometimes the lessons are this quiet—someone whispering as if feigning to be sincere. Afterwards, a few of the actors disappeared into the woods, & we followed them to the edge, to a large, man-made pond where a bridge spanned its width. We stood in the middle, tapping the blond planks, their edges slightly green, fresh, & watched as the koi rose, every color suddenly appearing to feed on our shadows. ...