T called me last night, teary-eyed, to tell me Goldfish died.
At first I was just relieved that it wasn't something more serious, but then we both cried a little.
We've had him for 3 years (the length of my time in China so far). Tony fed him and moved him by the window "so he can see what's happening outside" every morning, and moved him away every night "so the bright lights don't keep him awake."
This is the fish that I bought for my first students in Beijing. The one a two year old, who could barely speak English, named Goldfish because his (the boy's; not Goldfish') favourite book was "Brown Bear, Brown Bear, What Do You See?" The one G, after watching Finding Nemo, asked "Where's his mom and dad?" The fish that anyone who spent a bit of time with, would tell you that he truly did have a personality.
It's amazing how many memories a small animal can give you.
The crazy thing: Tony found him on the floor in the morning; we figure he jumped out of his bowl. "You mean he died because he jumped out?! Not because he was old or sick?!" I cried harder. We both did.