On the day my father left, I had to kill a fish.

It was about the size of my hand, yellow with blue and white stripes along its side and a pointed nose. It floated in the middle of the largish, knotted, plastic bag, and as my father said good-bye, I watched the fish’s eyes make small, skittish jumps.

My father was leaving for California with his new wife and couldn’t take his massive salt-water tank. I was probably eight, and it was a perfect summer day. We stood in front of my grandmother’s house, situated on the curving edge of a wide cul de sac. It was the smallest house on the street, but it was immaculate and loved. We all stood on the lawn: me, my father, and my grandparents. My mother stood behind me a few feet away, not wanting to be part of this impromptu good-bye ritual, but close enough so I knew that I wasn’t alone.

The story goes that my father decided, hurriedly, to move across the country. Possibly drugs were involved. Definitely debt. The story goes that none of this was planned, which is why mom got a phone call that if I wanted to say goodbye, it was pretty much now or never. She was probably ok with never, but didn’t want to make that decision for me. That’s why we left the house in such a hurry, and why I was now standing in front of my grandmother’s house holding this beautiful fish in its knotted plastic bag, hearing my father say things like “you can come visit” and “we need to get to the…