The Goldfish Pond

Arthur sat on the back porch watching his granddaughter, Emma, carefully feed the goldfish in the small pond he'd built last spring. The orange fish darted to the surface, their scales catching the afternoon light like scattered coins.

"They remember you, Grampy," Emma said, smiling. "Goldfish are smarter than people think."

Arthur chuckled softly. "Your grandmother said the same thing when we won them at the county fair in 1958. We kept that first goldfish in a pickle jar on the windowsill until it grew too big, then moved it to the wash tub in the basement."

He thought back to that summer, to his father's old bull—Old Bess, they called her—who'd somehow learned to open the gate with her nose. That bull had caused more trouble than any animal had a right to, chasing the mailman down the lane one Tuesday and disrupting the church picnic the following Sunday by wandering right up to the preacher as he was blessing the congregation.

"Dad finally tied the gate with chain and a padlock," Arthur continued, the memory warming him like old cider. "But Bess just stood there, watching him work, chewing her cud like she was already planning her next escape. Some creatures just can't be fenced in."

Emma laughed, a sound like wind chimes. "Is that why you never wanted cable television all those years? Because you didn't want to be fenced in?"

"Maybe so," Arthur said, surprised by her insight. "Though when we finally got it installed—what was I, seventy?—I discovered those nature channels. Watched a documentary about koi ponds in Japan. That's what gave me the idea for this pond."

He gestured toward the water, where the goldfish were now swimming in lazy circles beneath the water lilies.

"Funny how life circles back on itself. The pickle jar goldfish became cable TV inspiration became this pond." Arthur paused, watching a dragonfly light on a lily pad. "Your grandmother would've loved sitting here with us. She always said the best things in life take time to grow—like trees, like wisdom, like love."

Emma reached over and squeezed his weathered hand. "Like stories too, Grampy."

"Yes," Arthur said, feeling suddenly whole. "Like stories too."