Vale, Stitch the Fish. Our Siamese fighting fish has no fight left in him. I say ‘ours’ but, really, he was mine.
I was the twit who changed his water, fed him every night and worried he was too cold, too hot, bored or lonely.
About a week ago, Stitch stopped eating, which rattled me because I am very much a feeder. In our house, food fixes sadness, stress and celebration. Food is life.
So, naturally, I fussed over the fish when he swam away from his fish flakes.
Then, I found him lying on the pebbles. I thought dead fish floated. So, I convinced myself he was having a winter nap. Turns out it was the forever kind of nap.
I pretended not to like Stitch when he was first gifted to me by my friend Tricia because I resented having one more living thing to look after. But somehow, he swam into my cold heart.
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He joined me for morning coffee and Wordle, never needed lifts to sport or dance, never talked back, never made a mess or ate me out of house and home.
He just swam around, looking beautiful – basically, the perfect friend.
So, I have finally accepted that my ‘Stitchy baby’ has gone to the big fishpond in the sky.
Please, Tricia, do not buy me another fish. I have enough on my plate without checking the tank for bubbles as a sign of life. Bubbles in bottles, however, are happily accepted at all times.
It has been quite the week. We are five months into a renovation, and all the smart people told us to move out of the house.
But we swore we would be fine to live through the major changes.
I am not fine. My bedroom is now in the garage as I rummage through five cardboard boxes every morning to find an outfit for the day.
Sami Muirhead is a radio announcer, blogger and commentator, wife and mum of three.
