The life of a fish can be very short. Especially those purchased at chain pet stores and looked after by working moms who can barely remember to shave their legs, take something out of the freezer for dinner, or return DVDs ontime let alone clean and feed tiny fish tucked away under the clutter of elementary age wonderment and dirty socks.

I am sure there are fish out there who are able to withstand the elements of hurricanes and typhoons and tsunamis or the occasional over-feed and cloudy tank, but lately, the only ones I have come across tend to stroke out if the water gets too cold or someone forgets to feed them on a regular basis.

The good news for those fish is that whatever burst of emotion their passing can bring up for the owner fades within some small proportionate amount of time to the length of their life.

Except for the nagging guilt of the actual care-taker which tucks itself away underneath layers of algae and soggy fish pellets only to erupt forth at an unplanned, unannounced and definitely unceremonious time.

When she finally pulled across the road, the pain in her head pulsed with a vibratory pain in unison with the involuntary blood flow through her veins. The bright headlights from the oncoming traffic served to intensify the maddening internal beat of cellular magma. Red taillights gave off silently screaming tracers reminding her that life was in 3-D and she’d better grip the wheel tightly if she wanted to make it to her destination in one, albeit technical, piece.

The time to change course had long passed as had her ability to not continue careening along the familiar drive desperately denying the obvious. When the pain hit like it had on this night, she was unable to reason that her life was anything but a metaphor filled with sonorous, overwrought embellishments.

Much like an old water heater bursting its seams as it ruptures from the inside out, she was unstoppable.

Every few years (or less), we reorder out tiny little house to see if we can possibly make it feel bigger. It is backbreaking work and many compromises are needed to get it done. It takes quite a bit of time, something always gets broken and we have to cobble together a fix so that we can keep moving, and there are never enough hours plus energy to accomplish every last impulsive idea bursting from hamster on the wheel of my brain.

Once complete (in the most temporary sense of the word), it is a marvel to sit in a room that has simply been reorganized, had a good bit of vacuuming and moderate clutter clearing. There is a modicum of sadness for all of my sentimental treasures now tucked away in boxes until I can figure out what to do with them. There is excitement for the space created in the hopes it will free up motivational constipation. The laundry, dishes and grocery shopping all take a hit during these spontaneous home-redos. And there are aches from lifting way beyond my doctor-prescribed weight limit way too many times.

Over all, a worthy endeavor and it helps make life run more smoothly for a few more years (or less.)