Flowers for Algernon

Well actually Blueberry.

In addition to my gruff husband, cute kitty, and dog-like roommate my family is rounded out by a few African Ciclids. They are actually my husbands fish, a Holiday gift from me and a throw back from his childhood when he was surrounded by many lovely pets. Of course just because they are technically my husbands fish does not mean I'm not the one who doesn't clean the tank, feed them, treat their water, clean the filter and as last night will attest - weep for them.

We started with six baby fish. Zachary, Grape, Blueberry, Guava, Lemon and Pumpkin. Zachary didn't make it past the first day in his new home, he wasn't a travelling fish. Grape grew fast and seemed pretty strong but one night he got sick and I spent the night by his side trying to compel him through it. His fate was up to the fish gods though and he didn't make it. I was very sad.

However, for a long time the rest seemed to be doing very well, they got really big, ate tons, played fish games (which apparently consist of moving rocks around, pulling up plants and nipping at one another) - all of them were doing great except for Blueberry. While all the other fish grew inches upon inches he stayed baby size. And it wasn't for lack of eating. He was a spunky fish. Every morning, every night, he'd be right at the top of the tank ready to devour all the fishy flakes he could. He swam fast, played lots of fishy games. He even gave Pumpkin (our biggest fish and the Queen of the tank) a run for her money. I liked Blueberry, he was a runt, but he was a fighter.

Or so I thought. The weekend we went to Cumberland I left the fish in the hands of my roommate's what-I-thought-was-capable hands. I don't know what happened or how but by the time we got home Blueberry was no more. What's worse instead of him living in the flower pot with his brothers Blueberry had been unceremoniously flushed.

Stupid roommate.

I found out the Sunday we got back. After a long day of autocrossing, in the midst of a bad summer cold and a very long uncomfortable car ride home I just didn't have the emotional capabilities to process the death of a fish. My husband pouted at me for a little while, I patted his head sympathetically and we went to sleep. I woke up the next morning and like any other good psycho I continued to ignore the fact that Blueberry was gone.

I toyed with the thought that this is because I am growing up. In the face of the recent tragedies (My Aunt and Grandfather's death and my mothers new diagnoses of cancer) I was finally taking the small things in stride. I had finally, after 22 years of rather irrational emotional spikes, learned to not cry over spilled milk or flushed fish.

Yeah right.

Last night I attended another get together at the infamous DuClaws for a ticket drawing (by the way I won tickets to Cirque du Soleil...very nice) and a one day only beer release. I stayed away from the beer. Had my required glass of the special keg and stuck to water for the rest of the night. But inexplicably halfway through the night my husband brought up the death of Blueberry and in so doing brought on a wailing fest.

MY FISH IS DEAD!!!!!!! My poor little Blueberry. I wasn't there for him, I couldn't save him. My poor little spunky fish!!!!

Who can really say why I'm suddenly hit with overwhelming emotions for a little fish who died a week ago. Why didn't I cry when I found out? Why am I more depressed and overwrought over a fish than my family? Why did Blueberry die anyway. He was doing so well.

I can't answer these. I suppose one could say that I'm imprinting all my bottled up emotions over the big the things happening onto a small manageable thing. But that'd be a very grown-up thing to say...and grown-ups don't sit in bars bawling into their turkey sandwich over a fish.

I miss my fish.