The Wisdom in Still Waters

Margaret stood before her vanity, her fingers tracing the brim of Arthur's fedora. Six months since his passing, and she'd moved through days like a sleepwalker—her granddaughter Lily had called her a zombie once, laughing, then apologized when she saw Margaret's eyes. But the girl was right. Some days, Margaret felt hollowed out, kept moving only by momentum.

She reached into the hat's inner pocket and discovered something surprising: a dried, curled goldfish cracker, Arthur's secret snack when they'd taken their great-grandchildren to the park. The memory hit her with sudden clarity—Arthur, winking as he tucked another one into his pocket, promising to share later. They never had. Life was like that. Full of postponed moments.

Margaret carried the hat downstairs to where her old goldfish bowl sat empty on the windowsill. She and Arthur had won that fish at a carnival in 1958, the year they married. It had lived seven years, outlasting every prediction. "Just like us," Arthur had said when it finally floated to the surface, peaceful as sunset.

Now she understood what Lily had tried to tell her about the bear at the zoo—how the old grizzly moved slowly, deliberately, conserving energy but still present, still watching. "He's not lazy, Grandma," Lily had insisted. "He's just... being."

Margareth placed the fedora on her head. It still fit. Perhaps being a zombie wasn't about being empty, but about persisting. Like the goldfish, like the bear, like the dried cracker preserving a moment of joy in Arthur's pocket. She would move through these days deliberately, treasure in her crown, waiting for the waters to still enough to see her reflection again.