The Goldfish Summer

Margaret sat on the bench beside the community pool, her morning vitamin dissolving slowly under her tongue. At seventy-eight, she'd learned that some things require patience — digestion included.

"Grandma! Watch me!" Emma called from the diving board. Margaret's great-granddaughter stood with arms outstretched, her bright swimsuit a flower against the blue water.

Margaret raised a hand in acknowledgment, though her mind had drifted to another summer, sixty years past. The summer of the goldfish pond.

Her father had built it in the backyard, a modest concrete circle with a fountain that burbled like laughter. He'd stocked it with feeder goldfish — orange comets with names like Comet himself, and Sunshine, and the one Margaret had secretly named Lucky despite its ordinary scales.

"They're just fish, Margie," her father had said when she'd asked if they had feelings. "But they're alive. That counts for something."

Every morning she'd taken her Flintstones vitamin on the back porch, watching the goldfish rise to the surface for their breakfast. She'd imagined their orange scales gleaming like little suns beneath the water.

That summer, her brother had returned from Vietnam. He'd sit by the pond for hours, not speaking much, just watching the fish glide through the water. Margaret had understood, even then. Some wounds needed stillness to heal.

Emma splashed into the water, sending droplets flying like scattered diamonds. Margaret smiled. The community pool had replaced the old pond years ago. Her childhood home was now a parking lot. But some things remained.

She reached into her pocket and withdrew a small plastic bag. Inside swam a single goldfish, rescued from a classroom tank that was being dismantled. Emma had begged her to take it.

"You'll need a bowl," Margaret had said wisely. "And food. And patience."

"Like you take care of me?" Emma had asked.

Margaret had laughed. "Something like that."

Now Emma paddled over, dripping wet. "Are you okay, Grandma? You looked far away."

"Just remembering," Margaret said, tapping the plastic bag gently. "Some summers are worth keeping."