Three Seconds in the Pyramid

The goldfish bowl sat on the windowsill, its water faintly green with neglect. Inside, the orange fish swam in endless circles, the same lap she'd watched him complete a thousand times before. They said goldfish had three-second memories—myth, according to David, who'd explained the science over dinner one night years ago, his hands gesturing with the precision that had once dismantled her arguments and later, their marriage.

Now he sat at the kitchen table, staring at his own palms as if they belonged to a stranger. The Alzheimer's diagnosis had come six months ago, like a thief announced in advance. She'd thought she could bear it—that word, bear, heavy and fur-lined, suggesting strength she wasn't sure she possessed. Her mother had borne two stillbirths and a drunk husband. Bearing was what women did.

"Martha?" he said, and she flinched at the certainty in his voice. He only used her real name when he didn't know who she was.

"I'm here, David."

"Have you seen my wife?"

She'd learned to answer this question five ways. Sometimes she said Martha would be back soon. Sometimes she said she'd gone to the store. Today, she said nothing.

On the refrigerator, held by a magnet from their anniversary trip to Egypt, was a photograph of the two of them standing before the Great Pyramid. They'd been so young then—thirty, thirty-two—believing they had all the time in the world to build something lasting. She'd wanted children. He'd wanted tenure. They'd compromised on careers and travel, accumulating experiences like artifacts in a museum, dusting them off occasionally to admire. The pyramid behind them in the photo had seemed eternal then.

Now she wondered if their life had been built backward—a pyramid with nothing inside but air.

The goldfish continued its orbit, unaware of the irony. David watched it, mesmerized. "Look at him go," he whispered. "Every lap is a new adventure."

She stood behind him, resting her hands on his shoulders, feeling the sharp bones through his shirt. "Yes," she said, and something in her broke open, spilling out after all these years. "Every lap is new."

The goldfish swam on, faithful in its forgetting.