Stupid is the first word that appears in my mind as I look at it thumping on my now-wet, wooden, kitchen table. The muted thuds that seem to echo throughout my empty kitchen tap upon the window of my thoughts, and in one long, quiet, motion, I slip my hand under the rusty, orange mass and drop it back into its small bowl, letting it slide down my hand. And that rusty, orange mass that was convulsing, gasping, dying on my table just mere seconds before, suddenly transforms into a gorgeous burst of rich copper, radiant against its backdrop of turning-murky water. It slices past the miniature castle and flirts with the plastic scuba diver, darting around him, youthful and timid. His fins allow the overhead lights to glide atop them, leaving behind a trail of ephemeral brightness. As I turn my head from its erratic dashes, I know that I’ll return to these same thoughts soon enough because, without fail, the goldfish always leaps. It will again see beyond its glass home to the porcelain countertop, the metal sink, the blue dishes, the brass pots, the black pans of my own home, and it will again fling itself into my air-filled world. Stupid is the first word that appears in my mind as I look at it each time I find it on that kitchen table, but perhaps the first word that appears in my mind should be brave. It’s hard to reconcile which word I’ll ultimately end up choosing to describe its desperate act since I know both its motivation and its fate. Each time I drop it back into its small bowl, letting it slide down my hand, I feel a small twinge of pity; not for the moments the goldfish’s body had to spend working to keep it alive, but for the moments the goldfish would have to stare into a world in which it desired to be, but could never survive.