When Not To Listen

Three Christmases ago, I bought Grandma a betta fish. I remembering looking for the male betta that had the biggest fins. Like the Adonis peacock trapped in a petting zoo, I found Hoshi, blue and purple ribbons trailing off from his torpedo body, trapped in a plastic Petsmart cup.

But just before this Christmas, Hoshi died. Crotchety till the end, his body hid under one of his plants making it impossible to know he had passed away until the food gathered in the eddies of his bowl.

For such a menial pet, Grandma was surprisingly sad. Mom asked Grandma if she wanted him buried in the garden. She said it wasn't necessary. Grandma didn't watch as Hoshi traveled the plumbing to the afterlife, but sometimes, with grandmas, it's what doesn't happen that reveals the most sadness.

I asked her if she wanted another fish, but she said Hoshi was too much work. She said she didn't want another fish. Secretly though, with her age and her health, she felt a certain inability to care for another fish that would potentially live 3 years. And when I visited her for Oshogatsu, I saw Hoshi's bowl was still on the end-table. Dried marbles on the bottom of the bowl, a dehydrated plant limp on the bowl's edge, betta food still neatly tucked in its cubbyhole.

I chose not to listen to Grandma. My brother and I picked out a new betta for her. A girl this time. Her body, like the female peacock, is simple and direct. She didn't need trailing azure fins for me to find her; she is like my grandma: modest, calm, and loyal. Though she is a fighting fish, and her tag says "Temperament: semi-aggressive," I know Grandma can bring softness to her warrior's eye.