My grandfather keeps binders of photos, printed texts, and family records in the closet and cabinet of my room in his home. I look at them at will. Most are quite old, so there's very little about me beyond some pictures and exactly one anecdote in the form of a quote.

"Can I dig the hole when the fish dies?"

At some age preceding five, that's what I said on the prospect of acquiring a goldfish as a pet.

I'm guessing that not long after this was when the goldfish that accompanied that family was bought. I only remember the day he died. I didn't get to dig the hole. I must have been around four at the time and woke up to find he wasn't in the bowl. His name was Cinnamon.

When I was five, and living quite differently, a betta fish was purchased. He lived six years. I didn't dig his hole either. I never want a pet of my own after the ones my family takes care of-- I can't be comfortable with a life in my hands and I'm sure it's no fun to press it back into the dirt.

I've seen more people buried than fish, I'll say that. Some far closer than others. It doesn't invoke much feeling but can bring a dullness in the head and the heart. I worry more often as of late that another burial comes, one very different, one I wouldn't be able to take.

In the waiting room of the doctor's office as a child, I'd watch the fish tank. It seemed every time I went, there swam a different quantity of fish. I don't know if that's true, but I wonder what they felt.