Thirty-something speaks
Solving a problem like Maria
Mike Maddock

Maria is my youngest daughter's fish, or I should say Maria was my youngest daughter's fish. My wife discovered Maria resting a little too peacefully on the bottom of the fish tank the other night. The once flitting Beta had become an angelfish.

About a week ago, I noticed Maria spending an awful lot of time on the tank floor swimming up only for the occasional bite of food, so we suspected the end was drawing near. My wife and I weren't sure whether to prepare my daughter for Maria's eventual demise or just wait to see what played out because Maria was no ordinary fish.

She was tough like most pets of six-year-olds have to be and endured the extremities of having a child for an owner. She could take the lonely days when no one even walked past her and the days when five or six frantic little girls pressed their runny noses against her tank, tapping furiously on the glass to get her to swim out from behind the plastic plants. Maria even endured a week to herself, when the entire family took off for the beach and completely forgot about her. She wasn't even mad when a couple of hermit crabs came home from that beach trip and became her new neighbors.

Maria the Beta lived about six months, which under the circumstances seemed like a long time to me, but it's never enough for a child. When I broke the news to my daughter, she was heartbroken. She seemed to understand why Maria had to go to Heaven, but she wasn't happy about it. The last time I saw her cry like this was when our eleven-year-old cocker spaniel passed away about two years ago.

I rarely noticed my daughter tapping on the tank much less developing an attachment to this fish, but that didn't make her grief any less real. Her tears made my heart hurt. My wife, our three-year-old son, and eight-year-old daughter cried with her.

Maria was laid to rest in our backyard near the play set so, as her owner said, "She could always hear children playing and she would never be lonely." It was a short, but sweet ceremony. I dug the grave, my wife said a few words, and my kids said a little prayer.

The grieving process for children is intense, but not very long. By the time we got back in the house, and everyone was ready for bed, my kids were already talking about new fish. My oldest daughter wanted a goldfish, and my son wanted a catfish. My youngest daughter decided she wanted another Beta, which she would call Memory.

I don't know if she'll remember all this, but I know her mom and I will. It's tough explaining death to children, and fortunately thus far we've only had to do it with pets. I am comforted that even though our society grows more and more indifferent and desensitized everyday, a child can still be so touched by the death of a $5 fish.