The first day that I can clearly remember in my years as a child was my father’s 41st birthday. It was fall – I remember playing a game with him earlier in the crisp remains of once-years now faded shades of red and oranges. We all slept in the same room. On a pile of what could once be called a mattress and torn-up pillows – I remember that my father used to say our bed had once belonged to the Queen, and she gave it to him after he served her in the grand hotel he worked at. Yet, I don’t remember asking him why the Queen of England was staying in a two-star hotel.
I remember, also, that it was 1972. I remember this as my father had saved up many weeks worth of wages to buy me a popular children’s book, Charlie and the Great Glass Elevator. As he was the sole operator of the sole elevator at the hotel he worked at, a novel revolving around this brought him insurmountable joy. I remember him telling me the elevator he operated was, to my amazement, also made of glass. I remember asking him why anyone would want to ride in a glass elevator – how utterly terrifying! – and he gave a lopsided smile before he answered.
“Because even if your heart is aching and your bones are weak, when you ride in this beautiful glass elevator, my dear, you can rise above your worries and in to the clouds above and it will make your heart light and your bones strong.” I asked, “Father, is that why you ride in your elevator?” I cannot remember what he said or if he even chose to reply at all.
On his 41st birthday, my mother and I got up early to make waffles and cut up fruit for my father before he headed off to work. My mother had sold some of my old dolls and hair ribbons in order to buy the freshest fruit from the nearby market – I remember my father always used to say how breakfast was the most important meal of the day. Once he had awoken, stumbling blearily into to kitchen, he swept me up into his arms and kissed mother on the cheek.
We ate quickly, as Father was in a rush, and we were too overwhelmed by the sweet juices of the fruit we were eating to even think about savouring them. I made Father promise to tell me a story when he returned home from work – I will ashamedly admit I was quite the demanding child.
He left, and I played the day away. In the leaves outside, with small clammy hands, I danced around these flimsy, dead remains of what was once beautiful. In the leaves outside, I forgot about the wrinkles developing on Father’s face where they were not before, and I forgot about how, lately, he winced quietly whenever he had to pick me up and swing me ‘round. In the leaves outside, the only thoughts I had about Father revolved around the grand tale I was expecting to hear that night – how foolish and unsuitably innocent I was did not cross my mind.
Father returned home at the same time the sun was beginning to set – I remember, one day, asking him why this happened and he smiled at me me before explaining in a hushed voice, “The sun was playing with you all day, love, and now she has to go home too and spend time with the moon and the stars. The moon congratulates her on what she achieved that day – the flowers she helped to bloom, how the scales of the fish leaping in the river shone with the colours of an artists palette – everything she did was beautiful. The stars whisper to the sun that tomorrow will be the same, and she must rest up and gain energy for the days to come, and the sun could sleep happily.”
I remember telling Father that he and mother were my moon and my stars, and my father hugged me tightly. In the very back of my mind, I remember Father shaking lightly with what I now know to be silent tears. To be young and naive must have placed such a strain on my parents, especially Father, something I cannot help but regret today. No matter this strain, however, my father always returned home with a lopsided smile and a new bedtime story. I cannot help the way my heart soars whenever thoughts of this time return to me.
On this day, his 41st birthday, he returned home and I was waiting for him at the bottom of our creaky, water-damaged stairs. He took me into his arms and set us up on the window ledge we always sat at, staring down into the empty and decrepit courtyard below.
He didn’t wait for me to ask, and told a story that I had yet to hear.
“Mon amour,” He began teasingly, “There was once a small Little Fish, no bigger than my hand, that lived in a great big pond with many other fish. It was a beautiful enough fish, yes, with scales that would gleam in the sunlight and colours that looked like they had been painted on by Picasso himself.”
“But it was ignored by the other fish because it was so small. The other fish knocked into it while they swam by and always ate up all the food they could find so there was barely any left for the Little Fish.”
My father imitated the movement of a fish through the waves with his calloused hands, and continued.
“Now, you see, this pond had a waterfall in it, one that would bring the fish up to an even greater pond, one that was occupied by only the most beautiful fish in the entire world.” I interrupted him here, asking excitedly if the waterfall was like the glass elevator he operated at work. He hesitated, before saying, “Yes. Yes, love, this beautiful waterfall has the same crystal clear shine as my elevator and it brings me up and down every day, just like the waterfall.”
“But this waterfall was very, very, special. None of the fish from the lower pond had ever been strong enough to make it up to the big pond, but the Little Fish decided one day that he would climb the waterfall and become a huge, beautiful fish like the others. The other fish laughed at the small one, calling him foolish to think such a thing. The small fish ignored their mocking words and immediately tried to swim up the waterfall. Can you guess what happened?”
I guessed, excitedly, the Little Fish had made it up the waterfall on the first try. Looking back on these days, my naive ignorance is entirely embarrassing. While my father would work for hours continuously in a sweaty, cramped compartment that was made of mirrors reflecting each of his troubles, the worst possible thing that could happen to me was possibly losing the dollar I was handed whenever the ice cream truck came around our neighbourhood. Loss and disappointment and failure was a tiny crack on the mirror that was my life. I suspect now that my father’s mirror had shattered long ago. In front of me, however, Father had scrounged up enough material to tape his mirror back together and show me bright smiles instead of broken dreams.
“No, he didn’t make it,” My tiny heart may have broken at this, “The Little Fish fell back in to the small pond and the others made fun of him like never before. But, because the Little Fish had scales as tough as stone and a strong mind and heart, he tried again. And he failed. So he tried to swim up the waterfall again. Once more, he failed. Every single day, he would try to make his way up the waterfall, and he would always fall back down.”
“But,” My tiny heart did skip a beat at this, “One day, the sun and the moon watched this Little Fish try to swim up the waterfall, and they saw the scratches on his once-perfect scales, the colours that once shined so brightly now reduced to faded shades of their former glory. They took pity on the Little Fish, and on this particular day, as the fish swam up the waterfall, something miraculous happened.”
“At the point he quite usually fell back down, the Little Fish was transformed into a mighty koi fish. Its scales glowed like a sunset in the middle of July, and he became so strong and powerful that he made it up the waterfall with no struggling at all.”
“The Little Fish was now the Mighty Koi, and it took its rightful place among the other beautiful fish in the big pond. The sun and the moon smiled happily upon their work, and returned to living peacefully in the sky together. The Mighty Koi was proud of what he was, but he never forgot the mighty struggle it took to reach the top of that waterfall. I hope you never forget this, too, love.”
The moment he finished, I asked him to tell it again, pleaded to tell it once more, and he gave a tired, humorous sigh, before starting once again. It instantly became my absolute favourite bedtime story, and I do hope my father never got tired of telling it, as I asked about it nightly.
Was the Little Fish really that small? Why did it always try to swim up? Does it have a name? Why did the sun and the moon help it? Could we visit this waterfall? Father, how big is the Mighty Koi? Is it this big? Oh, Father, that was a wonderful story, but, but, but..
Even on the longest of days, my father would smile happily and, without fail, tell me this tired old tale that we both loved so much.
When we moved out of our lovely, old, creaky apartment, and I cried for hours straight, he hushed me with words about this Little Fish. When the dog he had brought home for me bit my hand one humid summer day, he made me forget about the sting of the anti-sceptic on my palm by retelling this story with exaggerated movements and voices.
When I was barely 7, and I was still struggling to tie my shoelaces, and my mother lost her job, he held both of us tightly and whispered in a voice lain with love that we were all Little Fish and our struggles would, one day, lead us all to becoming our own Mighty Koi.
He lost his job the next week.
I remember, quite clearly, how amazing a man Father was.
He stayed in his little glass elevator that he had built himself, and as this crystal case led him to the highest points and the lowest depths, he smiled at me and waved and laughed even as the cracks appeared around the edges. These little cracks would frighten any other person endlessly, frightened enough to demand to be let off at the next floor.
But my father would have pointed at these cracks and said the rain had fallen a little too hard that day, or an especially stubborn bird had pecked at the corner in search of bread crumbs, or that he had gotten bored and had jumped and danced around so much that this little room could barely contain it.
I remember Father quite clearly, and what he was to me. He was my Mighty Koi and my sun and my moon and the operator of this little glass lift that I would never have to ride in. His smiles and stories and silly faces were the only thing I saw, and by the time these cracks were too deep to fix, I had grown up and realized just how much Father had done for me and my tiny heart.
The first day that I can remember coming to this conclusion, I was not a child. I remember holding my father’s hand and bringing him flowers in bright shades of reds and oranges. I remember bringing him a third pillow to rest his heavy head on, and I remember him telling me the story of the Little Fish once more.
I can’t quite remember what happened next.
claire b.
