Fish Story
The shadow of a huge bird rises from the pond.
A loud splash!
The shadow of a huge bird rises from the pond.
I don’t see the bird.
Just the shadow…
Noisily, I swing open the porch door
startling hawk from its hiding place,
blue heron stalks in the shallows.
With two predators in sight
and who knows what snakes and snapping turtles out there,
waiting for their lunch to swim by.
The fish are clearly in jeopardy.
I didn’t think of naming the fish
until the grandkids insisted.
“What’s the name of that one?
and that one?”
Gill, Jade, and Syd named the biggest one
Summer Morning Bright Sunshine Big Fish.
We call her Goldie.
After that each name was like a lasso
encircling each fish,
drawing it closer,
attaching it to me.
I called the tri-colored one Flag,
the bright orange one Creamsicle
Spot, white and black
like Dick and Jane’s dog
in first grade readers of my childhood.
There’s Schiaparelli after the famous designer.
Black scales against brilliant yellow
reflect the sequined Hollywood gowns of the 40s and 50s.
My granddaughter Wren named the little one Tangerine.
When Tangerine survived her first winter,
I thought she might be enchanted.
The pond is rife with peril for one so small and brightly hued,
Even in this school of intensely colored Koi.
I looked for the little fish all week.
If Tangerine is gone, I’ll weep for her
relieving some of my tears
for the loss of my son.
Tears for the missing fish
ease some of the pressure of my grief,
dilute it,
gives it a break, somehow.
A friend refers to my loss as fresh.
Fresh is for flowers, coffee,
or snotty kids, and yeah, wounds.
fresh implies my heartache will fade, disappear.
I hold tight to my grief,
I don’t want it to go away.
It’s what I have left of my beloved.
This is deeply moving. The way naming transforms the fish from anonymous creatures into individuals you're emotionally invested in mirrors how attachment works - once something has a name, it becomes part of your story. The progression from the grandkids' elaborate "Summer Morning Bright Sunshine Big Fish" to your more personal names (Creamsicle, Flag, Schiaparelli) shows how these connections deepen over time.
The metaphor of watching for threats to the fish - the hawk, the heron - parallels the hypervigilance that comes with grief, that heightened awareness of danger and loss. And your insight about tears for Tangerine providing release for deeper grief is profound. Small sorrows can be containers for the ones too overwhelming to face directly.
The final stanza about holding onto grief rather than letting it fade - "It's what I have left of my beloved" - captures something rarely acknowledged about loss. Thank you for sharing this.