The Fishmonger’s Daughter
How poverty and social hierarchy in life bind us and weigh us down from moving through life.
It was at the fish stall that I saw her.
My face lit up. We had recently started talking in school. I tried to catch her eyes, trying to say hi to her, amidst the throng of the bustling morning crowd.
We always went to the market early. That was when you got the best and the fresher ingredients, not the pickedovers. The market was divided into the vegetable section, fish section, and chicken section. Each section had numerous stalls with different sellers, chatting, bargaining with their customers, catching up on life, feeding, and passing each other the gossip of the town.
The market was called a wet market for a reason, the floor was constantly wet. The odor of the fish and the live chickens in the cages wafted in the air, mingled together with the clucking sounds of the livestock, and the humming of the people’s conversation. The market was a lively place, it was the beating heart of the town; yet it was also stinky, and dirty — a place where they cut open a fish, slaughtered a chicken.
The unpleasant sides of life you did not wish to witness.
