The Goldfish Pond

Margaret sat on the bench where she and Arthur had shared their first kiss sixty years ago. The **goldfish** pond still shimmered in the afternoon light, though the fish were smaller now—or perhaps her memory had made them magnificent over the decades.

She traced the lines in her **palm**, something she hadn't done since that carnival fortune-teller promised her true love would come wrapped in surprise. Arthur had been wearing a clown costume when they collided, both reaching for the same stuffed bear at the ring toss. She'd been **running** late for her shift at the factory; he'd been running from his responsibilities as the pharmacist's son.

The **lightning** that struck between them wasn't dramatic—no clap of thunder, no fireworks. Just his embarrassed laugh when his red rubber nose fell off, revealing the kindest eyes she'd ever seen.

"Grandma?" Little Sophie tugged at her sleeve. "Why are you smiling at your hand?"

Margaret hadn't realized she was. "Just remembering, sweet pea. Just remembering."

"Is that where Grandpa Arthur proposed?"

"No, that was at the hospital, when I had my hip replaced. He got down on one knee with his bad knee and said, 'Margaret, we've done forty-two years. Want to make it forty-three until forever?'"

Sophie giggled. "Did you say yes?"

"I said, 'Arthur, get up before you fall down.' Then I whispered yes."

A dragonfly hovered over the pond. Margaret thought about how Arthur used to say love was like these goldfish—you think they're just swimming in circles, but really, they're creating patterns you can only see from above. Distance brings perspective.

"What will you be when you grow up?" she asked Sophie.

"A fortune-teller," Sophie said solemnly. "Then I can make people happy like you."

Margaret squeezed her granddaughter's hand, feeling the same warmth she'd felt at seventy, at fifty, at twenty. Some circles are worth running in, again and again.