What We Keep

Marcus stood before the cardboard boxes, feeling like a zombie going through the motions of a life that no longer fit. Three weeks after Sarah left, he'd finally mustered the energy to pack her things, but found himself paralyzed by the smallest objects.

He picked up the goldfish bowl—Bubbles, she'd called it—and watched the orange fish dart through the water, oblivious to the unraveling of a ten-year marriage. "Who gets the fish in a divorce?" she'd asked, her voice tired rather than angry. He'd said he'd take it, but now the fish seemed like an anchor to a past he couldn't quite release.

Next to the bowl sat her favorite hat, a vintage fedora she'd worn to every wedding they'd attended together. He remembered how she'd looked in it, tilting her head just so, eyes bright with promises they'd both stopped keeping. He should pack it. He should pack all of this.

Instead, Marcus found himself on the couch, staring at the blank television screen, the cable box mocking him with its blinking standby light. They'd watched everything together—news, bad movies, other people's lives through reality shows. Now the cable seemed like the only thing still connecting them to something larger than their own small failures.

"Marcus?" Sarah's voice came from the doorway. She'd come back for the final box. "I didn't think you'd still be... here."

He stood up, the zombie feeling lifting slightly. "I couldn't decide about the fish."

She looked at the bowl, then the hat, then him. Something softened in her expression. "You keep Bubbles. He likes you better anyway."

"What about the hat?"

"You keep that too," she said, already turning toward the boxes. "Some things are better left with the person who actually remembers why they mattered."

She was gone before he could ask if she meant the hat or them. Marcus sat back down, the goldfish circling in its bowl, the hat on his head, and finally turned on the cable. Anything was better than this silence.