What We Keep in Water

The goldfish was still alive. Three years after Sarah's funeral, the orange comet she'd won at that shitty office party swam lazy circles in its bowl on my windowsill, its scales catching morning light like coins underwater. I'd promised to feed it. Some promises outlast the people who made them.

Emma sat across from me at the kitchen table, her white streaked with silver now. We'd stopped dyeing it years ago—her choice, then mine. Something about surrendering to time felt like the only honest thing left. She twisted a strand around her finger, watching me. "You're still talking to her."

"No."

"You took the fish. You kept the apartment exactly as—"

"It's just a fish, Em."

"It's not just anything. It's everything you won't let go of."

Outside, winter pressed against the glass. I remembered Sarah on our last morning, her hair spread dark across the pillow, how she'd traced the line of my jaw and said, "People think grief is heavy. It's not. It's buoyant. It keeps you from drowning in everything else." I'd thought she was being poetic. Turns out, she was being practical.

Emma reached across the table, covering my hand with hers. Her palm was warm, calloused from years of sculpting. We'd been each other's anchor through everything—divorces, layoffs, the slow erosion of who we thought we'd become. That's what true friendship was: showing up for the messy middle parts.

"Remember that camping trip?" she asked. "When we saw the bear?"

I smiled. Sarah had been so drunk she tried to offer it her last beer, insisting it looked lonely. We'd dragged her back to the tent, laughing so hard we couldn't breathe, while the bear regarded us with mild confusion before ambling off. "She was an idiot."

"She was brave," Emma corrected. "There's a difference."

I looked at the goldfish, mouth opening and closing in the water's bright silence. Sarah had bought me the bear carving the next day—cedar, rough-hewn, its eyes somehow knowing. It sat on my shelf now, witness to everything.

"I don't know how to stop missing her,"

"You don't," Emma said simply. "You just build around it. Like a tree growing around a fence." She stood, rinsed her coffee cup. "Come over for dinner tonight. Bring the fish if you want. We'll figure out what comes next. Together."

The goldfish swam toward the glass, as if understanding. Some things you keep. Some things keep you. The trick was knowing the difference.