What We Keep

Elena smoothed the duvet, her fingers tracing the pattern where David's shoulder had been. Three years dead, and she still made coffee for two. The vitamin supplements sat on the counter in their orange plastic bottle—his were for heart health, hers for bones. Now she took both, swallowing the grief with calcium and omega-3s.

The goldfish pond in the backyard had gone murky. David had built it the year before the accident, his hands steady as he laid the stones, singing some ridiculous song about baseball he'd learned from his father. Three goldfish remained—orange flashes in the green water, survivors like her. She fed them every morning at seven, exactly as he had.

"You're still doing that, huh?"

Mark stood in the doorway, his suit jacket slung over one shoulder. Her brother-in-law, smelling of whiskey and rain. They'd been sleeping together for six months, a tangle of guilt and loneliness and something that might have been love if they'd let it.

"They need to eat, Mark."

"Fish don't have feelings, El."

She turned, watching the way his eyes softened when he looked at her—David's eyes, in a different face. "No. But we do."

He crossed the room, reached for her hand. His wedding ring was gone. Hers still caught the light.

"The baseball game," he said quietly. "The tickets. Tonight."

David had bought them—opening day, two seats behind home plate. For their anniversary.

"I can't."

"He wouldn't want you to—"

"Don't." She pulled away. "Don't tell me what he'd want. You weren't there. You weren't—"

"I was there, El. I was driving the other car."

The silence stretched, filled only by the refrigerator's hum. Outside, rain began to fall.

"The vitamins," she said finally. "I take his too. Every morning."

"Why?"

"Because some things, Mark. Some things you just keep."

He nodded, understanding something about grief and love and the small betrayals that keep you alive. He kissed her forehead, left without another word.

Elena went to the pond, scattered the flakes. The goldfish rose, mouths opening and closing, hungry and alive. She stayed there until dark, until the rain soaked through her shirt, until she couldn't remember why she'd ever thought letting go was something you did just once.