When I was a boy, I enjoyed fishing and the excitement of connection and of domination that accompanied it. I caught and cleaned the fish out of curiosity, and sometimes my mother would fry them for me. As an adult, when I prepared and ate fish, I felt self-sufficient.
Now that I am old, I have a pond and four large koi. The fish have names: Buh buh (orange and white) and Bud (black and white), Princess (silver and black) and Golden Shark (gold and black). Last summer, they produced almost two-dozen fingerlings, kaleidoscopic in color.
Over the years, I have fallen in love with their ways: their caution and their eagerness, their loose hierarchies and their mutual support, their gentleness and their occasional spurts of excitement.
When the water warms above sixty degrees, they are active and swim freely. They come toward the edge of the pond when I approach with their food. They seem only mildly competitive, allowing the young to eat first if they choose.
In the winter, the cold seems to slow them all into contemplation. They move close to one another below the remnants of the lily pads. When I approach, they remain quiet, usually side-by-side, sometimes tucked together as though they were keeping each other warm. The fingerlings have a separate spot beside the lily roots, clustered like the adults in cenobitic security.
In this artificial sea, aerated by a pump and waterfall, climate controlled by a pond heater, the inhabitants lie out of danger, waiting for spring. Caring for them, I turn away from the violence of my own youth and of my species. I pretend that all is well. I make believe that the peaceful community of winter fishes is the real world and that some benevolent caretaker watches over us all.