My goldfish just died. I started with two, then had one, now none.
I feel there is a level of dignity afforded to my fish when I let them die naturally in the comfort and security of their bowl. I watch and support it the best I can, with kind words and foody treats that float by untouched. The fish has swum til the very end. Albeit, side ways, upside down, and sometimes just floating with a twitch.
After some time, my strong and fearless man steps in to deal with the situation. The Cleaner comes in to clear away the evidence of the crime scene. The crime of a fish’s life gone haywire with clean water given at irregular intervals, and, the day the littlest gave the fish half a tin of food. In retrospect, it was a troubled life, one of excesses, the loss of a dear friend, solitude.
My heroic man clearly sees the other side of the fishbowl in this tale of woe. Unceremoniously, his hand dives into the now becoming murky water of the fishbowl to extract said fish. The slimy, not so squirmy little life is all but completely faded now. It has gone on to another place. A sacred place. A watery nirvana.
“Wha’do’ya want for dinner?” I call after him. “Whatever…” he calls back. There’s a sound of water rushing through a cistern. “Well, I guess we’ll just have spaghetti then”.
a step toward demise