Vietnamese Goldfish Book

The book that holds my memories.
The water-bloomer that guards them.
Old, battered, important pages held by a thread of elastic,
An embroidered goldfish surrounded by fabric like mud.
The tail burns as bright as fire,
The fish blows big, fierce bubbles.
The book was handed to me with kindness and care,
From a new friend,
Who I never heard from again,
But for what she did she will never be forgotten.
Every glance takes me back to when I was five.
It now sits in a box in my cupboard,
Never to be forgotten.
To most a useless book,
But to me a something,
Something just as important as family.
My Vietnamese goldfish book.