The Snow Globe of Memories

Some memories are more real than photographs

Photo by Aaron Burden on Unsplash

Don’t look up. Don’t ever look up.

My eyes remain on the floor, the speckled gray carpet. The polished sheen of waiting room chair legs. Of nervous shoes bouncing and tapping. But always on the floor.

I don’t want to see their faces.

The faces of worry. Of sorrow. Of red eyes swelled from tears and the stained salted rivers on pale cheeks. Faces forced to offer condolences to me, the boy about to lose his father. Condolences they struggle to offer me when they fail to offer it to themselves.

So I don’t look up. I never look up.

The fish tank gurgles. It draws my eyes. Bright fish swim through brighter coral. Oranges through purples. Blues dart through reds. I watch. A tall, slender fish turns to me, feeling my attention. Its mouth flaps open, violently pulling in water, before it expels the water just as quickly. Just as violently. Just as the machine violently pumps air into my dad’s lungs, chest momentarily full, before it deflates and the machine pumps again.

The fish’s mouth pumps again.

It’s mocking me. Laughing at me. It offers no forced condolences. I hate the fish. I want to throw the polished waiting room chair through the glass tank and…