The Short Happy Life Steffan Hruby (bio) The Short, Happy Life, buddhism, death, Steffan Hruby, Fiction, prose, story We used to coax ants onto our hands and trap spiders in empty glasses to release them into the yard. Moths and ladybugs went out the window, but we never did solve our winter problem in Minnesota. We thought about putting all of them into a terrarium, but that hardly seemed fair to the nonspiders. And yet we couldn't control them, so Mom had us murmur a short prayer and crush them in a tissue. We rationalized our little insecticides by telling ourselves each would be reincarnated as a praying mantis or something, though I never understood what was so great about those vicious things always hooking, fighting, killing. They'll even kill small birds, as if destroying their future selves. Birds are more evolved than any bug, since they are closer to Buddha nature. So it all seemed a little backward. It was hard being American Buddhists without teachers or cultural traditions to explain things. If we weren't misunderstanding, we were being misunderstood. Once Dad and I found this little red-faced man puzzling over our STOP TRANSMIGRATION NOW bumper sticker. The guy looked like an angry fetus. It was a bright spring day, the busy parking lot a glaring frantic field of pinballing light. Road grit from the recent thaw ground beneath our feet as we approached the car carrying groceries. The hunched little man looked up squinting through one eye. "I like your sticker," he said. My dad has a long somber face, grim mouth, and sad blue eyes, but hearing this he absolutely glowed. "Thanks," he said, extending his hand. "I'm Francis Macomber." Dad had been waiting for this moment a long time, yet his gesture went unnoticed. "Yep," said the man. "We should just build a damn wall. Fucking wetbacks." I laughed and laughed on the way home. "Oh my God, you looked so happy. I've never seen you look so happy. Then wham! You should have seen your face!" Dad was so embarrassed his eyes got all watery and I couldn't go on. "Well at least now you know why Latinos give you dirty looks," I said, remembering the time he complained to Mom. [End Page 175] "I guess so," he said thoughtfully. He never took it off, though. ________ Sometimes I think all my parents' talk about Buddhism and "inner peace" was just a bunch of lies. They argued constantly. Dad was stubborn, but Mom was persistent, and persistence always won. Mom was a planner. And once she started talking about her plans she'd go on with a lulling verbosity. She was like a wizard casting spells as Dad sat on their bed listening, his lean body sliding further and further down the wall like a collapsing marionette. Then something happened that changed everything. It began when we bought the new house. We'd lived in five houses and three school districts, and Dad and I were fed up. It wasn't the money exactly. Dad was a doctor and he had an inheritance; we were just sick of rearranging our lives all the time. But Mom was bored or something. She used to have some lame corporate job, back when she was "all anger and drama," then she married Dad and became a holier than holy wannabe monk and lover of all things Asian. "Oh my God, Mom. Again?" I asked. "What more do you want?" She tilted her head and smiled at me. "What a question, Ashoka," she said. "I have friends in this neighborhood. I don't want to move." Mom sat thinking for a moment with a playful expression on her face. She really was charming sometimes with her high cheekbones and dark, shimmery eyes. Pretty too. Some people said she looked like Ingrid Bergman and would kind of gush about her. Anyway, Mom just quoted a poem by Master Huong Hai. A silver birdflies over the autumn lake.When it has passed,the lake's surface does not tryto hold on to the image of the bird. "What?" I asked...