What We Keep

Elena stared at the goldfish bowl on the counter, its water clouding with neglect. Three weeks since David's funeral, and she was still failing at the smallest things. The goldfish—Bubbles, because their son Leo had no imagination—circled lazily, its orange scales catching the morning light. David had been the one to feed it, every morning at seven, like clockwork.

She opened the refrigerator, expecting nothing. The spinach David had bought the day before the heart attack was still there, transformed into a slimy black mess in the crisper drawer. She'd meant to throw it out weeks ago. Instead, she kept opening the door and closing it again, as if the decay might somehow reverse itself.

The vitamin bottle sat on the kitchen table. Dr. Morris had prescribed them after David died—something about stress depleting B12, about grief manifesting physically. Elena took one each morning with the grim determination of someone performing a ritual she didn't believe in.

"Mom?" Leo stood in the doorway, baseball glove in hand. "You gonna watch?"

Baseball. David's religion, now Leo's. She'd never understood the appeal—standing around in grass, waiting for something to happen—but David had played in college, coached Leo's team since T-ball. Last spring, she'd sat through games with her mind wandering to grocery lists, work emails, anything but the slow rhythm of innings.

Now she couldn't look at the field without seeing David in the dugout, calling out instructions she couldn't hear. But Leo needed her. David was gone, the spinach was rotting, and the goldfish was probably hungry. Some things you couldn't fix, and some things you could.

"Yeah," she said, forcing a smile that felt almost real. "Let me feed Bubbles first."