What We Cannot Unremember

The goldfish pond at Miller's Park had been our meeting spot for three years, ever since Sarah's promotion made us something else entirely—competitors in the same department, friendship collateral damage. I sat on the bench now, watching the orange bodies ripple through murky water, Helen's elderly golden retriever panting beside me. She'd asked me to watch the dog while she wrapped up her father's estate. Some things, she'd said, you shouldn't do alone.

A fox appeared at the pond's edge, russet coat bright against November gray. It moved like it owned the place—head held high,eyes flicking between water and walker, wholly unafraid. The goldfish scattered beneath its reflection. I remembered telling Sarah once that goldfish had three-second memories, a myth I'd repeated until she'd corrected me, voice patient: they remember for months, years. They recognize faces. They don't forget what hurts them.

The fox drank, delicate tongue breaking the surface, while Helen's dog whined softly, recognizing another hunter. I thought about the last conversation with Sarah—her office door closed, my resignation letter on her desk, her eyes saying everything we couldn't. The fox lifted its head, water dripping from its muzzle, and met my gaze before slipping into the woods.

The goldfish resurfaced, mouths opening and closing at the water's surface. I dropped a piece of bread I'd brought for Helen's dog. The fish surged toward it, greedy and beautiful, entirely innocent of how much they reminded me of things I wished I could forget.

Helen would be back soon. The dog would go home with someone who loved him. The fox would return to hunt. And I would keep coming here, watching fish that remembered everything, wishing I could learn to be as forgotten as I felt.