A few days after N’s first fish died, I took him to the local mega store and let him pick out a new one. Instead of opting for another traditional goldfish, he decided to go with a Black Moor fish. On the way home, he tried out several different names to give it. I don’t think that he ever settled on one. I secretly started calling it Azeem.
It was the summer before my freshman year of high school that Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves hit the theaters. I remember all of my friends and I swooning over the theme song, rewinding our walkmans over and over to hear the song’s climax.
At fourteen-years-old, hearing an approaching-middle-aged man with bad skin and a scratchy voice sing “I would die for yooooooouuuuu…” as the background music took a dramatic pause was incredibly hormone-inducing.
As a mother, seeing your son’s second fish put that concept into practice? Yeah, not so much.
N~ woke me up this morning with the sad news that Azeem had gone to meet Allah.
So, we built a little popscicle-stick pyre, dowsed the little fishy in kerosene, and shot a matchstick-arrow at him as he was circling the bowl (Flushed dooooooown, in a blaze of glory…).
OK, not really. We just flushed him. But really, the flaming fish flush scenario would have been pretty awesome.
So, we are back down to two fish, which I continue to care lovingly for. And five little tadpoles that I’m all but forced to leave alone. And not a single one of them has croaked, yet.