Fighting Back

OK. Day 3 is nearly over. I have found a way to shake off the abject terror of facing another year. I focus on work, immediate, pressing tasks that prove I'm competent, even creative. I am a doer. I like to do. I can easily immerse myself in the daily do and forget to be afraid. I get excited about ideas and practically giddy about a sentence in a proposal. Hurrah! Fear is banished, at least until I wake up at 4 AM.

Instead of work, let me tell you about a betta, a fighting fish who is living in a small plastic container on my kitchen counter. I have affectionately named him Buddy. My daughter gave the betta to her nephew, my grandson, for Christmas. His mom and dad left the blue and orange fish with flowing fins here while they went to visit Nana in Arizona.

I didn't want a fish. It's too much responsibility and I don't like how I'm treating him. I feel sorry for Buddy floating all by himself in that tiny bowl. Isn't he bored to tears? Doesn't he miss the thrill of fighting other male bettas to the death in the shallow,85° water of Thailand?

Every morning I'm certain I'm going to wake up to a dead fish floating at the top of the tiny tank, his colorful fins hanging lifeless in the too-cold, dirty water. Praise the Lord (Buddha?) every morning since Christmas eve he's been miraculously alive. When I told Mary I wanted her to come and get the fish she said, "You KNOW you like him. You KNOW you think of him as company." Well, true, but I don't want his life in my hands; I can barely take care of myself.