To Fishy

Sunday morning I woke up and was informed about your passing. I literally jumped out of bed — did not bathe, did not change clothes, did not do anything but ran, as fast as I could, to see you.

I was not around when your accident came. A random stroke of bad luck that swept you away from me.

You were already wrapped in a black plastic bag when I arrived. They said your eyes were still open — those golden eyes that see through my inner-workings and understand me so well.

The easiest course of action was to simply throw your body in the dumpster and get on with life. It’s what normal people would have done. But you, of course, deserve better than that. And I, as we all know, am not normal. So I roamed round the village to borrow a shovel, all the while ruminating about your death.

You were passing through the door, they said, when the wind blew. The door slammed down your stomach, hard — so hard you cried in pain, ran away, and disappeared. You’re pregnant, and was due to give birth this March.

There was no shovel.

Sunday morning I woke up and learned about what happened. The wind, your disappearance, the conclusion of your existence. They said your eyes were still open — those golden eyes that see through my inner-workings and understand me so well. You died away from me, in pain and agony.

There was no shovel.

I took a hammer, an ice pick, and a knife, and began digging your grave. I don’t want to throw you in a dumpster, you don’t deserve that. If anything, you don’t deserve to die at all but I dug and dug and dug and did not stop until the hole is wide and deep enough to accommodate you in comfort. Since I was not able to save you, that is the least I can do.

I removed you from the plastic bag and laid you down. Despite everything, your coat remained shiny, that patch of black that means so much to me. I looked deep in your eyes, and for the final time I closed it down. I placed your toy with you, a ping pong ball that you loved to chase.

Then slowly, with all the strength I can muster, I buried your body.

I am not sure how I managed to accomplish those — I just did. It was one of the most painful thing I had ever done in this life.

Tonight, I learned that a black cat was spotted around the place, twice in a row. I have not seen the feline personally but they told me that she looks like you. I wonder if she also has yellow eyes — the color of street lamps in a cold, foggy night.

I wonder if you would visit me as well. I wish you would. I will hold the door still so the wind, no matter how hard, won’t callously sweep you away, not this time. You’ll eat tuna and chicken and everything you like. There will be a celebration.

A merry, merry one.

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*To Fishy Morgan Le Fay (April 2016 – March 2017)

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