Wednesday, May 30, 2012

Go Fish...

Last Wednesday morning, my husband announces that Edwin, our pet Beta Fish, has gone missing.
"What do you mean missing?" I say.
"I mean, he's not in the fish bowl."
"What do you mean he's not in the fish bowl?"
"I mean, he's not in the fish bowl."
I raise a skeptical eyebrow. My husband is a notoriously bad finder of things. Unless Edwin has magically sprouted legs or wings, he is in that fish bowl.
I rush into my son's bedroom, family in tow, eager to prove my husband wrong. My eyes search the one-gallon tank atop the bookcase, a one-gallon tank that has suddenly become an ocean.
An empty ocean.
Edwin is missing, indeed.
My children's eyes are wide with worry.
"Maybe he went on an adventure," I say, falling back on the blanket explanation I use when other of my children's things are lost. And then, I turn to my husband. "I just cleaned the fish bowl."
"Well that's what happened," my husband says. "You must not have put the fish back in the bowl then."
This time, the eyebrow I raise is arched with anger.
"Maybe it was the kids," I say. This, of course, is a more plausible explanation. After all, just the afternoon before, the house was filled with neighbors and nieces and nephews, six total, all of whom were largely unsupervised while I sequestered myself in the kitchen and fixed dinner.
When questioned, my children claim ignorance, but still my husband's eyes stray to the carpet. Then, he pulls the bookcase away from the wall and, ever so slightly, gasps. I don't dare to look. He goes to the bathroom and comes back with a paper towel and, on all fours, fishes for the fish. There is something undignified about the whole affair. My daughter squeals, thinking we are engaged in a game of hide-and-seek. When my husband stands with the paper towel concealing the fish's limp form, my son is at the brink of tears.
I think that, as sappy as it may be, we should hold some sort of memorial service; that some consoling word or two should be said before the fish is disposed of. But there isn't time. A horn honks in the driveway. My son's carpool is here. My son swipes at his eyes and I arm him with his Transformers backpack. The horn honks again, the car's idling engine rumbling in the driveway, and I think how life is persistent, tireless, and yet...
"Mom," my son asks as I usher him to the door, "do people last longer than fish?"
His eyes are red-rimmed and injured looking. I can't bear to look at those eyes. And so, instead, I wrap him in my arms, covering his sudden and instant fragility.

13 comments:

  1. 'My son swipes at his eyes and I arm him with his Transformers backpack.'

    I saw this so clearly in my mind's eye, Kim.

    I think I might have asked this once before so I apologize if you've already answered and I'm forgetting but, what kind of novel have you just completed/fiction do you write?

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    1. Suze,
      I just finished a contemporary young adult story. Before that, I attempted something a little more literary - but it needed a lot of work :)

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  2. Aw, your son is so sweet. What a tender-hearted child. Sorry to hear about your fishy. Will you be getting another?

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    1. Yes! We actually purchased Edwin III that same day :)

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  3. Beautiful writing, Kim. I love "do people last longer than fish?" What a sweet question.

    Wanting to hold a memorial for the fish - reminds me of the Cosby episode where they do the same thing for the family fish. :-)

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    1. Ha! I thought of that episode, too :) It's classic...

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  4. Funny and heartwrenching at the same time!

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  5. I totally should have used the adventure line when Mark caught me flushing our beta fish in our ND apartment before a vacation (a la Nemo...you know, to the ocean, to find his family?)

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    1. Oh, I think I remember that. Poor fish! That adventure line really does come in handy though :)

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  6. Awww, so sad! Especially when your son asked if people last longer than fish. I think a pet's death always hit kids harder because they're suddenly wondering what it would mean for them or the people they love. Hugs!

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    1. I know. At least it is a tempered experience with death. Thanks for stopping by...

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  7. Oh, poor thing. Our Beta, Beta died too. He got a fungus and withered away. We tried to save him, but he still died. My son was very sad.

    Jenny from Falling for Fiction. ;0)

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  8. Awww... I am obviously catching up on your blog. I could read this for hours. I was right there in the house as you were describing all the events. I laughed when your husband dared to accuse you of the fish missing when you cleaned out the bowl. I think I have seen the arched in anger brow. Ha, so funny and yet precious.

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