What the Goldfish Know

The papaya sat rotting on the counter, its once-vibrant orange flesh now weeping onto the granite. Three days since Mara died, and I still couldn't bring myself to throw it out. She'd bought it the morning of the accident, practically dancing through the kitchen door, announcing she'd make us that tropical salad we'd loved in Costa Rica. That trip felt like another lifetime now.

Our golden retriever, Buster, nudged my hand with his wet nose. He'd been sleeping outside her office door, waiting for footsteps that would never come again. I scratched behind his ears absently, feeling like something hollowed out, something that moved through its days on automatic pilot. A zombie, really—animated but not alive.

The baseball diamond visible from our back window was coming to life. Spring league, same one where we'd met twelve years ago at a fundraiser. She'd been keeping score, brilliant and laughing in the oversized jersey she'd stolen from her brother. I'd been coaching third base, distracted and sweaty, but the moment our eyes caught across the chain-link fence, I forgot everything else.

Now I caught myself pressing my palm against the cold glass, as if somehow I could reach back through time.

In the corner of the living room, the goldfish bowl caught the afternoon light. Three fish—one with a trail of silver scales like a comet—swam in endless circles. I'd read once that goldfish have no memory, that every lap around their bowl is like the first time. What would that be like? To not remember the smell of her hair, the way she laughed at her own jokes, the terrible puns she made during sex? To not remember how her hand went limp in mine as the monitors flatlined?

Buster whined, bringing me back. I looked at the papaya again, soft and brown-spotted, and realized something cracked open in my chest. Memory wasn't a cage. It was the only thing keeping her here, still present in the architecture of my days. The grief would remain—would always remain—but the love remained too, tangled up in it like roots in soil.

I picked up the fruit, feeling its weight. Tomorrow I'd figure out how to be something other than this walking ghost. Tonight, I'd make her salad, eat every bite, and let myself remember everything.