My belt buckle is the object of his affection; goldfish brightly twisting fins frozen in a watery two-dimension.
Fish fly, he says. Mom fly. I fly.
The truth is hidden. Mom does not fly. She rests underground.
Fish don’t fly. When they pass on, they pass on to life in the sewer, faithfully flushed, mingling among the ruins.
I don’t fly, darling. You are going to Puerto Rico and will not understand where or why you must sit still in a space of 2 by 2 and be quiet for 8 hours, maybe more. You will be pinched.
No, I’m not your mother, darling. The belt buckle you see reminds you of your goldfish that you once flushed down the toilet, but you cannot tell me. Instead, you say fish fly. Mom fly. I fly. Yes, one day. Not yet. When beings disappear, they fly.
What I do not understand is why someone won’t tell you the truth? I will now, for you.