What Remains in the Bowl

The hospice nurse called them zombie days — those moments when Mom's eyes would open, her body would sit up, but she wasn't really there. Just going through the motions of being present. I'd learned to dread them almost as much as I'd learned to dread the good days, the ones where she knew my name and we could pretend, for twenty minutes, that the tumor wasn't eating her alive from the inside out.

"What's that one called?" she asked, pointing to the aquarium.

"The orange one? That's Goldie. Like the crackers."

She laughed, a sound like dry leaves. "I wanted a dog, you know. When I was your age. Your father said no. Said we'd be the ones taking care of it after you kids left."

Outside, Buster started barking at the mail carrier. He was my dog now, had been since I moved back in three months ago. The irony wasn't lost on me — I'd finally gotten the dog she'd wanted, but she was too far gone to notice.

"He's a good boy," she said.

"Yeah, Mom. He is."

The goldfish drifted to the surface, mouth opening and closing in that silent, endless plea. I'd bought the tank on impulse, something living in a house that felt increasingly like a museum exhibit curated by death. Goldfish were supposed to be easy. That's what the pet store guy had said. They didn't need much. Didn't ask for walks or emotional labor or conversations that never happened but hung in the air like smoke.

"I'm sorry," she said suddenly.

"For what?"

"For not being there more. For being a zombie most days."

I reached over and took her hand, the skin paper-thin over fragile bones. "You're here now. That's what matters."

She died two days later, quietly in her sleep. The hospice nurse said it was peaceful. I scattered her ashes where she'd wanted — under the old oak tree in the backyard where Buster liked to dig. I kept the goldfish though. Some mornings, I catch myself watching him swim those endless circles and thinking about how we're all just doing the same thing, really. Going through the motions. Waiting for someone to remember us, even after we're gone.