Lesson In Death

Amélie lost her first tooth! The excitement of this milestone event was, however, slightly dampened when we returned home yesterday afternoon and found one of the three goldfish in the backyard pond lying on its side, its gills working furiously. He was alive, but hanging on by a thread.

Amélie immediately took charge by checking that the fountain was working (it wasn’t) and eventually, by scooping the little fish into a green watering can full of fresh water. But the little fish’s prospects looked slim. It was clear that he had been poached in the hot water of the basin that is the pond. Nonetheless, he was still alive, and I left him in Amélie’s capable hands before rushing off to French tutoring and dinner at the Winds.

This morning when I arrived at the house, Nurse Amélie checked on her patient. No gill movement. He wasn’t floating, but he was dead. After a few minutes of deliberation (“Is he… dead?” “I think so.” “No, I’m not sure…” “Yes, he’s definitely a goner.”) :

“What should we do?”

“Flush him down the toilet,” Amélie replied.

“Who will do it?”

“I will,” she said bravely. And, accompanied by her mama, she marched him into the downstairs bathroom for the funeral.

A few minutes later, I heard a retching sound from the bathroom. Amélie was crying so hard she was coughing. She curled up on her papa’s lap and sobbed, lamenting the unfairness of death. She cried like I’ve cried for lost love, and it all made me think that if a dead goldfish can bring that kind of pain, maybe life wasn’t any easier when I was five. Maybe it is a good thing to be a grown-up.