Shadow the fish

Every time I look at my fish tank, I want to cry. Shadow, my favorite betta fish that I ever had, died of old age a week ago. I remember the times when I used to feed him, clean his tank, and take care of him. I remember the time I saved Shadow from freezing water when it was winter and the heater wasn’t turned on. I remember the time I first saw him at the store. As I look at the tank now, even with other fish, I feel like it’s empty, like a puzzle missing an important piece.

I used to draw portraits of Shadow in my summer camp all the time. I remember watercoloring the dark blue and red shades and smiling upon the painting when it was done. Now, that painting is the only picture I have of Shadow.

Shadow the betta fish was very nice to all the other fish. Instead of fin-nipping and attacking the fish like the average betta fish would, he would let the fish swim in peace. “Unusually nice, this fish” the shopkeeper says.

The red molly, Spike, is the only one old enough to remember Shadow. He looks at me with sad eyes and often stays in the corner for a long time. He, too, feels my grief. “I know how it feels,” I say to Spike. He looks at me like he understands.

When I go to the fish store now, I want to cry whenever I see Shadow’s species, with a dark blue hue and a red stripe to their fins. I want to cry whenever I see one of the young kids, happy and smiling, taking home a new betta fish.

I replay all of these memories, from when I first got him to when I buried him in the backyard.