Unaccustomed to fish and their ways, we realise quickly that the goldfish bowls of our childhood are no longer the way, and so, acceding to a preschooler's wish, my wife spends hours learning the ways of fish tanks and the fish that dwell in them, then imparts this learning to me as we gather together accoutrements and seek to keep a fish alive.
Like new parents, powerless to draw the line between marketing and the edicts that utter death to the fish that do not receive them, we take all advice, and pour hours the night before, like purified water, into the tank's assembly, then
the next day slowly let this fish like a newborn take in its water, its new surrounds, while two wondering eyes swallow all in a dazzled gulp, and I am back on the ground watching his newborn pupils discover this gobsmacking, stunning, sense-exploding whole for the very first time, and wonder too:
that we should have made it through four years largely unscathed, save the loss of sleep; that he - this life-absorbing, world-imagining force before me should be here at all, staring in awe at a fish bubbling water.
One thought on “The Fish Tank”
And congratulations on you and your wife working so well together in fish-protection! In my family, the fish came so quickly to a bad end that we finally gave it up and just stuck to dogs. I think you should do something amazing for your wife to celebrate your accomplishment.