What We Keep

The baseball game droned on in the background—bottom of the eighth, two outs—and Elena stared at her iphone on the kitchen counter. It had been silent for three hours. Mark always texted during away games, even when he was supposed to be focusing. Even when things were already falling apart.

She opened the freezer and pushed aside frozen peas to find the goldfish wrapped in foil, dated from last summer. The carnival where they'd won it felt like a different lifetime now. The fish had lived three months longer than their marriage.

"Stupid thing," she whispered, closing the freezer door harder than necessary.

On the mantel, the wooden bear Mark had carved in Vermont watched her with glass eyes. He'd spent two weeks on it, sanding down the rough edges, getting the curve of the spine just right. "It's us," he'd said. "Strong. Permanent."

The bear was still here. Mark was three states away, sleeping on his brother's couch.

Her iphone lit up.

Thinking about you. Game's almost over.

Elena's thumb hovered over the screen. Outside, summer crickets sang against the humidity. The freezer hummed. somewhere a dog barked at nothing. She remembered Mark's hands on her waist, the smell of sawdust and cedar, the way he'd looked at her like she was the only thing worth carving into existence.

She remembered the fights. The silences. The morning she'd stopped trying.

Elena opened the freezer again and took out the goldfish, letting the foil thaw against her palm. Some things you kept because they mattered. Some things you kept because you couldn't quite let go.

Her iphone darkened again.

She placed the fish on the counter, turned off the television, and left Mark on read.