Memory's Swim

The goldfish—named Memory, because irony had always been her mother's particular brand of wit—circled its bowl in the same languid loops as Sarah's thoughts. Three months since the funeral, and this orange fish was the last remaining thread to the woman who'd taught her how to love poorly and forgive extravagantly.

"You need to get out," Elena had said over dinner last night, pushing spinach toward her across the table. "Eat something green. Living people need chlorophyll, Sarah."

Elena, who'd been her friend since sophomore year, since the night they'd both thrown up cheap wine behind the library and vowed never to drink merlot again. Elena, who'd held her while she cried over men who didn't deserve tears, who'd danced at her wedding to David, who'd stopped calling three months ago when Sarah's grief became too large, too messy, too demanding for their carefully curated adult friendship.

The phone rang. Elena's name lit up the screen.

"I'm coming over," Elena said without greeting. "And I'm bringing Thai food. And wine. The expensive kind you like."

"I'm not good company right now."

"You don't have to be. You have to be present."

When Elena arrived, she didn't mention the unwashed dishes or the way Sarah's hair had started to mat at the back. She simply set up their food on the coffee table, poured two glasses of wine, and sat watching Memory swim in endless circles.

"My therapist says grief is just love with nowhere to go," Elena said softly. "But I think that's bullshit. I think grief is love that's been transfigured. It's still there, Sarah. Just different."

She reached into her bag and produced a small net. "I brought this. For Memory. She needs a bigger tank. It's cruel, keeping her in that small bowl. Your mother would hate that."

Sarah felt something crack open inside her chest—something that had been sealed tight since her mother's death, since she'd started holding her breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop, for loss to take everything else too.

"I don't know if I can keep anything alive right now," she whispered.

Elena's hand covered hers. "You don't have to. That's what friends are for. We hold things when your hands are too full to carry them alone."

They sat there long into the night, two women and a fish, while spinach grew cold on their plates and grief, finally, began to learn how to swim in something other than circles.