Way back in February (or so), my dad took Poppy out to run some errands. 
They came home with a pet fish — a beautiful little Beta. Poppy named the poor little boy fish Dorothy, after Elmo’s goldfish, and he spent most of his time swimming around in a vase on the kitchen counter.
Dorothy has been a good and faithful little companion, paying close attention to our culinary adventures and leaping playfully to nab fish food from my finger.
Which is why I am very sad to report that this morning, I found that Dorothy had gone on to his fishy reward.
The worst part is, I’m pretty sure it’s my fault. I changed Dorothy’s water yesterday. I did leave the new water sitting out to acclimate for about 24 hours, but I don’t think I gave the vase enough time to return to its normal temperature after I washed it.
I think I killed Dorothy. And I’m really pretty darn upset about it. I miss that little guy.
There’s a house across the street from where I was raised that was built in the 1880s. My mom has lived there on and off throughout her life — when she was a child, again in her late teens, just after I was born and for a few summers when I was in high school. It’s next to a creek, and it’s a lovely place to sleep when the windows are open and it’s warm out. It’s not a good place to sleep in the winter at all, because it’s very, very cold.