Today, you won't let just ANY little nervous breakdown deter you from sending Mama to Goldfish Heaven!

The Porcelain Gates

You've known all of your adult life that is was thanks to your Mama that you developed the aspirations to become the devoted Professor of Biology that you are. Truly, there was no finer instructor in all of the residing state colleges in all of Vermont. Parents and students alike sang your praises and your unquestionable aptitude in every aspect of your field from evolutionary theory to chromosomal research. Sometimes it seemed that you could hear barely perceivable kudos emitting from the jars full of formaldehyde in which the frogs and baby pigs resided, waiting for that eventual day that they would receive the honor of being vivisected by capable students under your noteworthy gaze.

Mama was so encouraging, so easily approachable with any situation or problem. You still remember the time that she escorted you to the Junior Spring Fling Formal in High School after Marsha Littleton ditched you as her date in order to attend the same prom with the Obsessive Compulsive "Special Needs" student that she coached in Speech Class every wednesday after school.

On the way to the Formal in your Mama's purple '81 Toronado, you smiled and thought about how you rather preferred going with Mama instead of with some bubblegum-chewing hussy that would stoop so low as to go to Formal with a 15-year old korean exchange student possessing the irresistible desire to hoot like an owl every time somebody turned a light switch on or off.

Really, you were better off.

Mama told you to ignore all the teasing that you encountered when walking into the Vista View Room at the Radisson Hotel, telling you that all these bumblefuck teeny-boppers couldn't find prettier dates if they had been pedophilic doctors specializing in eating disorders.

And when "Livin' La Vida Loca" pulsed out of the speakers later that night, Mama and you took the dance floor and Cabbage-Patched your asses off like it was 1999.

Ever since then you have taken Mama's word as gospel.

But you never knew your worldview was to come crashing down all around you until now, standing at the front of your 10:30 AM Biology 3 course, with the entirety of the class erupting in cruel laughter.

Somewhere in your brain you are transported twenty-six years back in time. You are nine years old and your goldfish Boris has just hit the proverbial dust. His tiny little golden body floats placidly in the water as you hover over his bowl and turn the water to salt with your tears.

You remember standing by the toilet as Mama held Boris by his back fin and committed him to eternal rest into the toilet bowl with a tiny plop.

"But Mama, if Boris is going down into the sewers, how is he going to float up the sky into Heaven?" You inquire through your tears.

Mama hesitates before speaking. "Sweetheart, little fishies have their own Heaven to go to. And everybody knows that the only way to Goldfish Heaven is through the sewer pipes that run under our city and empty out into the promised land for every good little fishy."

You nod, and sniff. "So if Boris swims through the sewers to Goldfish Heaven, did my kitty Leonardo dig his way to Kitty Heaven through the hole in the backyard?"

"Quiet, honey. It's time for Mama's afternoon snack," came Mama's reply, as she rummaged through the liquor cabinet.

You snap back to reality. Your students are still laughing at you as you fondly rhapsodize about Goldfish Heaven, and your #1 student Stanley Wu is looking at you with pity as he stands with an expired Artie in his palm, the goldfish that is your lab mascot.

Finally you burst into tears and run out of the classroom toward the only place where you can get a grip on yourself; the retirement home where Mama is now housed.

At the Home, an emotional reunion takes place. Mama is unresponsive in her coma, but you know that on some level she can hear your voice, feel your palm on her forehead.

Mama always listens.

"I only hope that you can go to someplace as nice as Goldfish Heaven, Mama," you sob as you jerk the plug out of her life-support machine.

That evening you are apprehended by the authorities as you slog through the sewers underneath the city, but even before the White-Coats gag you, you don't mention Goldfish Heaven even once, because no one understands like Mama.