Fish Story

The shadow of a huge bird rises from the pond.

A loud splash!

The shadow of a huge bird rises from the pond.

I don’t see the bird.

Just the shadow…

Noisily, I swing open the porch door

startling hawk from its hiding place,

blue heron stalks in the shallows.

With two predators in sight

and who knows what snakes and snapping turtles out there,

waiting for their lunch to swim by.

The fish are clearly in jeopardy.

I didn’t think of naming the fish

until the grandkids insisted.

“What’s the name of that one?

and that one?”

Gill, Jade, and Syd named the biggest one

Summer Morning Bright Sunshine Big Fish.

We call her Goldie.

After that each name was like a lasso

encircling each fish,

drawing it closer,

attaching it to me.

I called the tri-colored one Flag,

the bright orange one Creamsicle

Spot, white and black

like Dick and Jane’s dog

in first grade readers of my childhood.

There’s Schiaparelli after the famous designer.

Black scales against brilliant yellow

reflect the sequined Hollywood gowns of the 40s and 50s.

My granddaughter Wren named the little one Tangerine.

When Tangerine survived her first winter,

I thought she might be enchanted.

The pond is rife with peril for one so small and brightly hued,

Even in this school of intensely colored Koi.

I looked for the little fish all week.

If Tangerine is gone, I’ll weep for her

relieving some of my tears

for the loss of my son.

Tears for the missing fish

ease some of the pressure of my grief,

dilute it,

gives it a break, somehow.

A friend refers to my loss as fresh.

Fresh is for flowers, coffee,

or snotty kids, and yeah, wounds.

fresh implies my heartache will fade, disappear.

I hold tight to my grief,

I don’t want it to go away.

It’s what I have left of my beloved.