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It was raining outside; it had been raining all night. I
pulled on a wool sweater, and pulled the bottom of my pajama pants over my bare feet, and stepped out onto my porch. If it
were daytime, the front yard would be scattered with kids playing hockey, but it was dark now and the only movement came from
the trees that were slightly swaying with the breeze.
I looked down, and there was a puddle in the seat of my red
lawn chair. Swimming around in the puddle was a small fish named Bucket. As I lit up a cigarette, Bucket and I began to talk,
although I wasn’t in much a mood for talking, I mostly listened. Bucket told me all about his life and stories about
his home and his family.
As I smoked a few days of off my life, bucket told how he came from a large family, and he
was the youngest fish. When he was growing up, Bucket’s father always made him do everything last. When it was time
to eat, Bucket had to wait on his brothers and sisters and collect their food scraps from the table. Once they were finished,
and Bucket had cleaned up after them, he was allowed to rummage through the scraps to try and find something to ease his hunger
pains. He would salvage what he could from the scrap bucket, and then swim off to a corner where he would sleep alone, which
was usual. Every night as he closed his eyes, Bucket would wish to be someplace where he could be happy, and maybe even have
a friend, or just someone to talk to. And for some reason, tonight as Bucket drifted off to sleep, his wish was granted. As
he opened his eyes, Bucket found himself here, in a puddle in my lawn chair.
Bucket and I talked for a while longer,
until I became too tired to keep my head up. I said goodnight and told Bucket that I would see him in the morning. I retired
to the warmth of my house and my bed. As I began to fall asleep, I felt guilty for having such a fortunate life, that I so
often took for granted, but I found comfort in knowing that now Bucket had a friend, and maybe so did I.
When I awoke
in the morning, the sun was shining through my window. I relaxed in bed for a moment, excited to start a new day, and talk
to my new friend again. I didn’t bother with the wool sweater this time; it felt like a warm day. I stepped outside
to say good morning to my friend, but the sun had dried up the puddle in my lawn chair, and the sun had also dried up Bucket.
I lit up a cigarette, and as I smoked a few more days off of my life, I stared at my lost friend, who was now beginning
to rot in the heat of the sun, in my red lawn chair.
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