Daydream YooHyun Jeon

Daydream YooHyun Jeon Oil on Canvas

Now I am not even able to balance the water flying out of his fish’s bowl after each step that I take. Its silky fins are ripping on the sharp edges of the glass, yet I still hold on. It is pathetic, the way that its dead body is being tossed around as I move. It cannot float away, it must stay here in my arms with me, just like my brother. He is gone, but I have always held him in my arms. His sweet scent tunneling through my nose is my sign of comfort. I wish to stay washed with his love, but this means I am trapping him in the fishbowl that is my mind.

I condemn getting lost in his lying memories that only make me miss him more. I need to get rid of them, let them find their way into the sky and out of my desperate clutches. I know that he would not want my dented mind to strain itself over him. I shall let them run and embrace freedom. Let them drift away, though I wish to resist. They must continue their lives. Brother, I am sorry for keeping you in my clutches. I am sorry for holding on.

The county fair is where the once famished fish found its way into my brother’s heart. Where I whispered secrets into my brother’s always listening ears. Where he would ease me and take my mind off of the cruelty of our deceptive father. Where he would love me, his sister, as much as he could. It is only right for his precious fish to rest in the river at the core of it all.

When I arrive, I take a moment to indulge in my surroundings as sweat starts to dry on my skin. Fair tents are blowing against the wind, and animals are prancing about collecting food from the vacant human population. The river still weaves its way through the fairgrounds. There is even a tent right up against the river. Red plastic cups are packed away in boxes underneath and ping pong balls are scattered about. A leg of the tent is in the water, willing the tent to fall over.

This is the stand where my brother first laid eyes on the delicate goldfish now cradled in my hands. I let my fingers sink into the water, turning them to rubber as they bounce around in my reflection. I regain my grip on the bowl, turn it on its side, and let the fish float away into the river. The goldfish begins to pull away from me as the water ripples on top of its body.

Tears trace my face, pummeling every second that goes by. I tremble, wail, and weep. The fish is gone. The last bit of my brother is gone.

Though empty, I am able to fill myself up again. Fill myself up with the act of living life. My brother can frolic in the sky without my misery holding him down. My tears now hint at joy. I allow myself to admire the soft blue hue of the sky caressing the clouds. The river holding his fish casts a reflection of the stunning sun into my eyes. The floating fish looks magical under the glowing rays. My countenance lightens with the newfound beauty that surrounds me.

My brother and I would love to dip our feet into the river after our long day at the fair. Our grins in those moments bring a twinkle to my face. I roll up my pants and let my feet absorb the coolness of the relaxing water. My memories are no longer weighing me down, nor him. I did not need to get rid of my memories, but merely the misery that I had attached to them. I finally feel free to let my love towards him be a beautiful thing, not a burden.

My sluiced feet stride over to the tent where my brother had accepted his goldfish. Tears are still trickling down my face, but a sense of happiness begins to accompany them. I pull the leg of the tent out of the river and dig its heels into the ground so that it will never fall over. All of the ping pong balls scattered under the tent are soon placed back in their crates in a meticulous manner. My hands skim over a table, the one where my brother was once handed a ping pong ball by a lady with a name tag, as I force it to stand. Exquisite yellow flowers sprout from weeds all around the tent, calling to me. I line the edge of the table with the flourishing flowers, making sure to lay out as many as I can on the slick plastic surface. Now I find myself strolling around the fair in search of textured twigs, intertwined ivy, and any other sprout of color that I can hang from the top of the tent where my brother first fell in love with a goldfish.

Once I finish my scavenging, I hold the canvas tent in my hands, my whole body supported by the tips of my toes. I place all of my findings in the crevices that line the top of the tent. The tent is now teeming with yellows and greens and purples and oranges. I take a step back to cherish my careful creation. I am mending a memory, appreciating it. It is beautiful, beautiful like his goldfish, beautiful like our memories, beautiful like my brother. I have found the beauty in grief.