I’m not responsible for my goldfish’s death

The childhood gift of my dreams (that I really didn’t need).

I was a sly child. Sometimes that characteristic worked in my favor and most times it didn’t. One particular Christmas, my sly nature got me a fish. Not just any fish, but my first and second-to-last fish.

My mom is allergic to cats and dogs, so I was never able to delight in (wo)man’s best friends. But one day, I got on my knees and begged my mom for a fish. With some persuasion from my aunt, I finally got Mckenna. She was small with beady eyes. She was beautiful. I played with her all the time — as much as you can play with a fish. I fed her all the time. It was perfect.

Obnoxious, I fed her too much. I thought every time she greeted me behind the glass, she was hungry. I thought it would be a great gift to give her a sprinkle of fish food — a thank you gift for being my friend. Well after several months of these gifts, she died.

The great thing my parents did, however, was not telling me my fish died until six years later. Instead, they rushed out and bought me another one, thinking I wouldn’t know the difference. I didn’t know the difference, but that’s not the point.

Months later, I gave her away for dance lessons. My mom said I couldn’t have both. So we returned the fish to the pet store. I know. I was ruthless. But in my defense, I thought she was my first and had lived a long life.

So after that, I became fishless. But I want my parents to know:

I’m strong now.

I’ve learned my lesson.

Gosh darnit, I’m a 19-year-old college student and I want another goldfish.

Everyone else has a fish at Bethel.

-CeCe Gaines, for The Clarion