Sharon Olds writes about a bad decision she made as a young girl . . .
Killing My Sister’s Fish
by: Sharon Olds
I picked up the bottle with its gladiator shoulders—
inside its shirred grayish plastic
the ammonia, more muscular than water, pungent—
I poured one dollop, gleaming genie,
into the bowl with my sister’s goldfish
just because they were alive, and she liked them.
It was in the basement, near the zinc-lined sinks
and the ironing board, next to the boiler,
beside the door to the cellar from which
I could get into the crawl space
under the corner of the house, and lie
on the dirt on my back, as if passed out.
I may have been on my way there
when I saw the bowl, and the ammonia curled
for a moment in the air like a spirit. Then I crawled up
under the floor-joists, into the tangent
where the soiled curved up, and I lay there,
at the ends of the earth, as if without
regret, as if something set in motion
long before I had been conceived
had been accomplished.
I try not to dwell on regrets. In fact, unlike Olds, I can’t think of much from my younger days that I look back on with shame. (There are a few things, but I’m not going to go full-blown therapy session with this post.) But I didn’t kill any fish intentionally. (Notice the word “intentionally.” I have had my fair share of accidental fish murders.)
Today, I’ve been thinking a lot about my daughter and son. Tomorrow, my daughter has her first day of medical school. This September, my son starts his senior year of high school. Both of those facts make me feel a little outmoded, as if I’m an old iPhone and everyone wants the newest model.
I’ve made tons of mistakes as a parent. Any person who has raised a child (and is being completely honest) will admit to fucking up. A lot. It goes with the territory. In case you haven’t noticed, children don’t come with user manuals or warranties. You get one shot. If you’re successful, your child will still talk to you as an adult. If you’re a failure, your child will be talking to a licensed therapist as an adult.
On the whole, though, regrets are useless. All they do is make you feel bad about something that you can’t change. Yes, I’ve made mistakes with my kids. I own those fuckups and have learned from them. The sad thing is, just when I think I’m getting the hang of this father gig, my kids are growing up, and my wife and I will be empty nesters soon.
I’ve had arguments with my kids. Yelled at them. Cussed them out. Guilted them. I regret each of those moments. But I’ve also cheered my kids on, comforted and celebrated them. In the end, the celebrations outnumber the degradations. That’s what matters. More happiness than sadness. More joy than sorrow.
Saint Marty wrote a poem about regrets today, based on the following prompt from The Daily Poet:
Close your eyes and imagine yourself holding five things in your hand: a person, a building, a weapon, and two other items of your choosing. Write a poem that incorporates all five items. For extra credit, use one item three times throughout the poem.
My Dad Haunts a House
Where Nobody Knows Him Now
by: Martin Achatz
Dad used to plant tomatoes every spring,
lined the sidewalk to the front door
with them so that, come August,
visitors were greeted by orange and red
fireworks as they knocked or rang the bell.
There are no tomatoes at the old house
now, the new family who lives there
more interested in remodeling, tearing
out, installing, while Dad’s ghost watches
dandelions overtake the lawn and shakes
his spectral head. He wishes he still had
his cane, the one he almost used on my skull
near the end of his life, him frustrated,
diminished by the vacation his body was taking.
At night, Dad hovers over the boulder
at the bottom of the driveway, waving
his candle flame arms in the dark, as if
he’s some kind of lighthouse guiding
cars safely home, that place where
everyone knows you and says
your name like an amen at the end
of a prayer.
