What We Leave Behind

The goldfish floated sideways in the bowl, its orange scales dull in the morning light. Sarah had bought it on a whim three years ago, during that month she swore she'd keep houseplants alive. Now Sarah was gone, living with a man who bore an uncanny resemblance to every mistake she'd ever made, and I was left with a fish that refused to die.

Buster, her golden retriever, rested his chin on my knee. He'd been Sarah's dog, technically, but he'd chosen me in the divorce. Smart animal.

"You're not eating either, are you?" I said to the fish. "That makes two of us."

The pool beyond the sliding glass door had turned a swampy green. Sarah had loved it—the way the water caught the sunset, the smell of chlorine on summer evenings. I'd hated maintaining it, the way she'd float there with a glass of wine while I skimmed leaves, pretending not to notice she was somewhere else entirely. Now it was just another thing I couldn't bring myself to touch.

My phone buzzed. Sarah. "Did you feed the fish?"

"It's still alive."

"Good. That's something." She paused. "There's a bear in the neighborhood. Animal Control posted about it on Nextdoor. Keep Buster inside."

A bear. Of course. Because what this situation needed was more wild things breaking containment.

"I will," I said.

"David?"

"What?"

"Are you okay?"

The question hung there, heavier than it should have been. I looked at the fish, still hovering at that strange angle—alive, maybe, or just refusing to sink. At the dog, watching me with eyes that seemed to understand everything. At the pool, green and stagnant and full of things we'd never said.

"I'm working on it," I said.

"Me too," she said softly.

That night, I dreamed the bear came through the sliding glass doors. It walked to the fish bowl and ate the goldfish in one swallow. Then it lay down beside Buster, and they both looked at me with the same patient eyes, waiting for me to finally clean the pool.

I woke at 3 AM. The fish was dead, finally sinking to the bottom of the bowl. Buster whined in his sleep. Outside, something large moved through the backyard, and I didn't get up to look. Some things you let pass through. Some things you just bear.