Memory in a Glass Bowl

I watch the goldfish suspended in his glass world, the water a distorted lens that magnifies and shrinks him with each pass. Small orange comet, Marco has been swimming the same lazy circles for three years, long before the cardboard boxes appeared in our hallway.

"The water's getting cloudy," Daniel said, checking his watch instead of the tank. "You need to change it more often."

That was his complaint about everything, really. The water, our relationship, the way I let laundry pile up. Things Daniel maintained should be clear, transparent, easily monitored.

Marco swims through the artificial plants now, his tail catching morning light. Daniel's gone, but the fish keeps swimming, indifferent to our unraveling.

People say goldfish have five-second memories, but it's a lie. Marco recognizes me. He knows which corner drops the flakes, how to press his nose against the glass when he wants attention. What would it be like, to truly forget? To swim past the same castle decoration every three seconds and find it new each time?

Instead I'm stuck with the opposite problem: remembering everything. The way Daniel's key sounded in the lock, his particular breathing rhythm, the Sunday morning he said "I think I'm done swimming in circles" while Marco did his laps behind him.

I drop the flakes. Marco breaks the water's surface, greedy and alive.

Maybe that's the real cruelty of being human. We don't get to choose what sticks. The water keeps moving, carrying all of it forward — the memories I'd drown to forget and the ones I'd save myself to keep.

Marco finishes eating and returns to his circles, swimming through it all again and again. I check my watch. Time to change the water.