The Art of Letting Go

The baseball sat on the mantel like a small, leather monument. It was signed by some minor league player whose name Marcus couldn't recall, but Sarah had been so proud when she won it at that charity auction three years ago. Now it gathered dust alongside their wedding photo, both artifacts of a life that no longer fit the space.

He'd already disconnected the cable television. The coaxial cable lay coiled on the floor like a dead snake, its silver connector staring up at him accusingly. Sarah had taken the smart TV—her choice, apparently—but left him with the basic package and a reminder that their five-year relationship had about as many channels as the discontinued premium tier: lots of noise, nothing worth watching.

The goldfish, a mournful creature named Bartholomew that Sarah's niece had won at a carnival, drifted through its bowl in the corner. Marcus had always hated fish—the way they stared with their unblinking eyes, their perpetual open-mouthed gasping. But Sarah had insisted they needed a pet, and Bartholomew was the compromise between her desire for a dog and his allergy to cats.

"At least you can't run away," he told the fish, dropping a pinch of food into the water. Bartholomew rose to the surface, his orange scales catching the afternoon light, mouth opening and closing in what looked suspiciously like judgment.

Marcus's phone buzzed. Sarah's lawyer, confirming tomorrow's appointment. The final baseball game of their marriage was heading into the ninth inning, and he wasn't even sure which team he was playing for anymore.

He wrapped the baseball in newspaper—appropriate, given how quickly their personal lives had become public spectacle among their friends—and placed it in the box marked "Sarah." The cable followed, then the fish food. Bartholomew himself went into a portable container. Sarah could take him to her new place. Let the fish swim in someone else's waters for a while.

The apartment was quieter now, emptier in a way that had nothing to do with furniture. Marcus stood in the center of the living room, surrounded by boxes, and realized that sometimes the hardest part of growing up wasn't learning to let go—it was understanding that some things were never really yours to begin with.