Photo by pexels.com by johndetochka
My son is distraught when his fish dies – his first real pet, he keeps saying, as though the family dog didn’t quite belong to him after seven years of sleeping with her on the couch, pouring her food, kissing her snout. I think of flushing him – the fish, not my son – down the toilet, but the thought of his tiny scales and fins being stripped away as he travels down a city sewer pipe feels too sad; he was the most expensive betta fish at the store, I recall, and my son loves him so much, his death should hold more weight than other fish, right? Together, we make a box out of popsicle sticks and place the fish inside before setting the vessel free on the Lehigh River. The current carries the box away quickly and my son sobs, saying he was just getting to know him, why did he love him so much only to lose him, how is this fair?
And I wonder why I agreed to this –to giving my son something I knew would die, something I knew would hurt him, if only for a little – why I agreed to any of this, these soft goodbyes, these forever discoveries of new pain and loss, these moments of letting go. Maybe it’s because I was trying to teach him what I was just now learning: that one day this boy with downy legs and bristly hair would break my heart; that loving him enough means knowing I’ll lose to the current; that loving him enough means losing him forever.
Madeline Anthes is the Assistant Editor of Lost Balloon. You can find her on Instagram at @madelineanthes and find more of her work at madelineanthes.com.
