The Last Goldfish Summer

Eleanor smoothed her white hair back, her hands trembling slightly as she adjusted her shawl. At eighty-two, she still made the weekly pilgrimage to Sunnybrook Manor, though the drive grew longer each year.

In room 217, Martha sat by the window, her silver hair pinned back with the same tortoiseshell combs she'd worn for forty years. They'd been friends since they were girls sharing a porch swing on Maple Street.

"Brought you something," Eleanor said, placing a perfect orange on Martha's bedside table. "Your favorite."

Martha smiled, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "You remember."

"I remember everything, Martha. Including how you made me take that vitamin C tonic every morning during the war. Said it would keep us healthy."

"And here we are," Martha said softly. "Still here."

Eleanor pulled her chair closer. "Do you remember that summer we won that goldfish at the carnival? The one with the orange bowl?"

"Finbar," Martha said instantly. "We named him Finbar. He lived seven years."

"Seven years," Eleanor marveled. "Longer than either of our first marriages."

Martha laughed, a sound like wind chimes. "We were so foolish then. Thought we knew everything. Now I know enough to appreciate a good orange and an old friend who still visits."

Eleanor reached for Martha's hand, both their skin papery and spotted with age. "We built something, didn't we? Sixty-four years of friendship, through children and grandchildren, through losses and victories."

"Better than goldfish," Martha said, squeezing her hand. "Better than oranges."

"Better than vitamins," Eleanor added.

They sat together as the afternoon light moved across the room, two women with hair like snow, holding onto something that time couldn't diminish. The orange sat on the bedside table, perfect and round, like the circle of their friendship that kept bringing them back to each other, season after season.