What We Keep

The goldfish died three days after the funeral, which felt like a cosmic joke—small death following large death, as if the universe were reminding us that all things end. Martin had won it at a carnival years ago, that absurd summer we drank wine on the fire escape and talked about the children we'd have someday. Now the bowl sat empty on the windowsill, catching morning light in its curved glass.

I found the hat in his closet yesterday—a felt thing, wide-brimmed and ridiculous, worn exactly once to a themed party where we pretended to be people who didn't carry grief like a second skin. When I pulled it on, drowning in fabric that smelled of cedar and him, I caught my reflection. My hair had grown out, wild and unkempt, the gray streaking through it like cracks in porcelain. He'd loved running his fingers through it. Some nights, waking from dreams where his hands were still warm against my scalp, I'd forget he was gone and reach for him.

The cat appeared at our door two months after Martin died—a scrawny, orange thing with one ear that refused to stand upright. I named him Carnival because I hated how perfectly fitting it was. He spent his days sleeping on Martin's pillow, as if stealing the warmth might summon him back. Today, Carnival wound through my legs, purring like a small engine, while I stared at the empty fishbowl deciding whether to fill it with water one last time or pack it away with the rest of the artifacts.

Martin used to say that grief was like water—you could hold it, but only for so long before it slipped through your fingers. Standing in our bedroom, surrounded by his things, I understood what he'd meant. Some days I wanted to drown in it, let the memories pull me under until my lungs burned with something other than this constant, quiet ache. Other days, like today, I wanted to pour it all out—every photograph, every sweater, every goddamn goldfish bowl—until the apartment was clean and empty and I could finally, finally breathe.

Instead, I filled the bowl. The water shimmered in the afternoon light, distorting my reflection. Carnival jumped onto the windowsill, tail twitching as he studied his upside-down self in the glass. For the first time in months, I laughed—really laughed, the kind that starts in your chest and doesn't taste like grief.

The fish would need a friend, I thought. And maybe so would I.