The Goldfish Funeral

The goldfish was dead. Like, actually dead — not just "floating at the top of the bowl for three hours but maybe he's sleeping" dead. RIP Bubbles.

"We should give him a proper send-off," Maya said, staring into the bowl where Bubbles had spent his entire three-year life swimming in increasingly pathetic circles. "He was family."

"He was a carnival prize you won because you threw a ping-pong ball into a cup," I said, but I was already grabbing the shovel from the garage. Because that's what best friends do — they help you bury fish at 11 PM on a Tuesday.

We dug the hole in Maya's backyard, under the oak tree where her dad had banned her from burying anything else after the hamster incident of 2021. The soil was damp from earlier rain, and distant lightning flashed at the horizon, silent and judgmental.

"I feel like we should say something," Maya said, holding the fish in a shoebox lined with tissue paper. "Something profound."

"Here lies Bubbles," I began. "He lived. He swam. He definitely didn't think about the social pyramid at school, or why Tyler didn't sit with us at lunch anymore, or whether we're ever going to figure out who we're supposed to be."

Maya cracked a smile. "Low blow."

"I'm just saying. Bubbles had it figured out. Swim, eat, repeat. No overthinking."

We lowered the shoebox into the ground. Maya placed a rock on top — not a grave marker, but a boundary. A This Is Fish Territory Now warning to any neighborhood cats considering an archaeological expedition.

"You're my friend, right?" Maya asked suddenly, her voice soft. "Like, even when things get weird?"

"Even when things get weird," I said. "Even when we're burying carnival fish in the middle of the night. Even when —"

Lightning cracked closer this time, followed by thunder. Rain began to fall, soft at first, then harder. We didn't move.

"Perfect," Maya said, wiping her face. "Bubbles would have wanted this drama."

We ran back to her house, soaked and laughing, leaving the grave behind us. The goldfish was gone, but something else remained — the kind of friendship that survives seventh grade and bad haircuts and unexpected funerals in the rain.

Some things, like Bubbles, only last three years. Other things last forever.