What Remains in the Bowl

The goldfish circles its bowl, endless loops against curved glass, and Sarah thinks: this is us now. Just going through motions, trapped in transparent walls we can't quite see. Three months since Mark died, and she's become something else—something that walks and talks and goes to work but doesn't quite live. A zombie, really, wearing her husband's flannel shirts and eating dinner alone at the counter they bought together at IKEA eight years ago.

She peels an orange, the citrus scent sharp against the stale air of the house. It's the first thing she's tasted in weeks that actually tastes like something. The brightness of it almost makes her weep, which is ridiculous because she hasn't cried since the funeral. Everyone told her the grief would come in waves. They didn't say it would feel like drowning in shallow water.

Outside, the pool sits covered, its winter-blue surface stretched tight. Mark had been so proud of that pool—first purchase after his promotion. They'd imagined summer evenings, cocktails floating on the water, friends over until midnight. Instead, it became another thing he didn't finish. Another project abandoned between diagnosis and the end. Now it's just there, a massive reminder of plans that dissolved like salt in water.

The goldfish—Finnegan, absurdly enough—was Mark's hospice companion. Something living that wasn't dying. Sarah had promised to keep him alive, though she's not sure why. Perhaps because Mark made her swear, his hand shaking as he pointed at the bowl on his nightstand. Take care of Finn, he'd said. And maybe he meant take care of yourself.

She feeds the fish now, watches the flakes drift down like snow through artificial water. Finn surfaces, gulps, disappears again.

"You're just existing too, aren't you?" she whispers.

Her phone buzzes—work email, probably, or her sister checking in again. She doesn't check. Instead, she walks outside, stands by the covered pool. The sun is setting, everything painted that particular shade of gold that makes ordinary moments feel like photographs. She eats the rest of the orange, sticky juice running down her fingers, and realizes she hasn't breathed this deeply in months.

Tomorrow she'll call someone about uncovering the pool. Tomorrow she might even call her sister back. But tonight, she just stands there as darkness gathers, the goldfish circling somewhere inside, both of them learning to swim forward instead of around.