Straggling mourners remained, resisting dusk’s intrusions, unprepared to embark on the next inevitable steps of their grief.
The dirt had already fallen on the deceased. One person nervously tamped the dirt down a bit, evening it out with the edge of his wing-tipped shoe.
He said, “I still cannot believe he is gone.”
His wife grabbed him by the arm, urging him to leave the spot. “We can visit him tomorrow. Let’s get inside, soon the mosquitoes will be out.”
“You’re right,” he said. “I am so glad that we did not flush him down the toilet like those other goldfishes.”