Pappa tells me how on the radio, he heard them say that firefighters must sometimes kill small animals to prevent them from spreading the flames with their ignited fur
I imagine ashed hands wringing the soft neck of a warm rabbit like a wet rag over a sink the faces of hills burning away
I look at my father and see the lines time has etched under his eyes
our eyes
And I remember Pappa as a younger, happier man with his eczema eaten hands gently scooping up my goldfish, dying and flopping on the carpet when I knocked the bowl over
Pappa, angry: You must learn to take Care of things, Jacqueline, if I teach you nothing else. Walk quietly and slowly around this fish because he’s only a fish.
He fills up the bowl again with water and lets the fish jump out of his hand into the bowl
