Swim Bladder Disease II

Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave
Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind;
Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave.
I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned.
~ Edna St. Vincent Millay

This is Mama Fish. She was one of my “original five.” Jon noticed the orange mustache. I know she’s female, though, and said it’s lipstick.

On a Friday in the summer of 1998, Shirley and I wondered if the orange and white fish was pregnant or just fat. Shirley thought pregnant, and was right: By the time I returned on Monday morning, she was skinny. No babies in sight. Oops. That’s when she became Mama Fish.

Mama Fish has been with me since I opened my first downtown office on F Street. I bought a 5-gallon aquarium and five “feeder fish” from Davis Lumber. (In time, I would add three more.) As a girl, my fish seemed to die within a week or two. I felt sad when they did, helpless every time my dad flushed one down the toilet. So, when I bought goldfish for the first time as an adult, I learned how to take care of them. Doug in the fish department at Davis Lumber was an expert. I was a good student. Over time, I even started teaching him.

My goldfish were with me through another two office moves, then to my home last fall after I permanently closed my downtown office. We been on a ten-year journey together.