The Goldfish at the Wake

The wake was in full swing when I found myself standing by the mantle, staring at the baseball cap that wasn't mine. A black wool hat, stained at the brim from years of being crushed into coat pockets. David's hat.

"He would have wanted you to have it," his sister said, appearing beside me with fresh tears.

I thought about David, my oldest friend, the one who'd walked out of my life three years ago over something I can barely remember now. Probably about Sarah. Or maybe it was about the promotion I got that he wanted.

"Do you remember that goldfish we won at the fair in 2018?" I asked, suddenly. "The one that lived for five years against all odds?"

David's sister smiled. "He named it Lucky. He said it was the only thing in his apartment that didn't judge him."

Lucky had died the same week David stopped speaking to me. I'd found out later that David had been going through something—he'd never said what. Depression, maybe. The goldfish had been his last tether to something that needed him.

I should have reached out then. I should have shown up at his door with a six-pack and sat in silence with him. Instead, I'd let pride win, let the silence stretch until it became unbridgeable.

Now here I was, holding his hat, while strangers moved through his living room, eating catered food and sharing stories I'd never hear.

"I don't want it," I said, handing the hat back. "He should keep it."

"Who?"

"Lucky. The goldfish." I was crying now. "He should have kept caring about something that needed him."

His sister looked at me for a long moment. "He talked about you, you know. Even at the end."

"What did he say?"

"That you were the friend who always showed up. Eventually."

I took the hat. It smelled like him—tobacco and rain and something else I couldn't place. Regret, maybe. Or maybe that was just me.

Outside, the summer air was heavy. I placed the hat on my head and walked toward my car, already planning the baseball game I'd promised to take my nephew to. David would have hated baseball. He would have called it a distraction for people who couldn't face real life.

He was probably right.

The goldfish at the wake had been swimming in its bowl near the entrance, oblivious. I wished I could be like that—just swimming, eating, sleeping, unaware that the bowl was too small, that the water needed changing, that sometimes the people who love you leave.

I got in my car and didn't look back.