Oh, regret! Trust the family photographer to have missed the four short days of photo ops we had with our dear little bubble guppies. On Saturday, after the burial of Steve's dear grandpa, I guess because we were searching for something to rejuvenate the little ones who stood so bravely and quietly as Taps was played for their dear Great Grandpa John Murray, that last cold Saturday in April, having watched with honor and pride and somber hearts as their Great Grandmother was presented with the Stars and Stripes, on behalf of the President of the United States of America, wow, we found ourselves in a random strip mall in Saugus. I guess it was natural, all of us anxious to lose ourselves in the hope of new life that as we watched Samara's sweet little fingers on the greased up glass of the fish tank at Petsmart we were convinced that buying two goldfish was a grand idea. This was a big deal for the Dosch's. Home we came with Sasha and Roro. Samara picked out the names so easily, as if they'd been dreamed up years ago, and fed them with those same little fingers so daintily and carefully at dinner time each and every night. She called them to the glass each morning. The little nemos kept me company as I rocked sweet Landon back and forth those long three nights of that scary and unyielding 103.7 fever. Somehow it seems like they were here a while. The fit into our little family so effortlessly. Well, for four nights. This evening, we came home from my parents' house to find the little orange buds' eyes bulging, boca arriba, still to the world...I won't go on. Steve's out of town so I had to go into Super-Mama-Mode and it took all the courage in my American-Idol-On-Hold body to not shed a tear or throw-up in my mouth, but I did it. I didn't think Sammy would even notice the empty home on the counter drying, after a double bleaching session, but she did, and in that same brave and honorable way, beyond her years, she seemed to understand that they, too, have gone home (not down the toilet) and that, after all, that is where this journey is leading each of us, isn't it? I must admit that when the Petsmart employee fervently boasted that her two guppies were three years old, I thought we'd be among the lucky ones, but alas, this Spring we will find new life, the circle of Doschhood elsewhere. RIP, indeed. And to Sasha and Roro, I'm sorry that the only mention, the only picture we ever got of you was this. When Fudgie died in January 2004, I was flying from Havana to Cambridge and had my luggage stolen. How cruel it seemed. The hours and hours of video and dozens and dozens of stills I took of my beloved pup, from carefree sunshine days at the Residence to final excruciating hours as the only American dog in Cuba were all gone, gone with my camera, gone with my camcorder, my clothes, my things. I cried over losing those pictures and videos for weeks, and I cried over losing dear Fudgie, well, to this day, but in the end, I tried to declare that some pictures are actually better left to the heart. What would I do with a photo of the fishies now? I'm not sure. And those ones of my dear doggie? Lord only knows. Why do we listen to "If Heaven" when we're lonely? Why do we read the last few pages of My Sister's Keeper time and time again? Why do we let our minds wander to that place where there is no return? What would I do with those pictures now? I'm not sure. But I sure wish I had just one.
