Maybe it was three weeks ago when my restaurant partner Tina and I were surveying our pond at Lily Pad. We looked at the pond and the clutter of plants in pots and the sweet population of carp swimming around. We looked at each other and agreed: Let’s fix the pond.
Already I had this vision of a placid pond full of lotuses of different breeds and heights, rocks sticking out, flowers fragrant, blooming almost all hours. So we called Jun and asked him to remove the pots that held apparently diseased leaves, afflicted with white aphids, which had been hurting our eyes for a while now. Take those away. He removed maybe 12 pots of them. Nothing happened. The carp continued to swim and jump around. They were happy.
The following week we were back. This time I became impatient with those plants that looked like small umbrella ribs. They had grown so tall and lush over the years and they were crowding up the pond. I had all of them removed. Now the pond was beginning to really look good. Now all we had to do was divide up the lotuses and buy new ones. But before that, Tina wanted to remove the silt that had accumulated at the bottom of the pond. One day, she said.
Tuesday, a week ago, I held my writing class graduation at the restaurant. Everything seemed fine, the carp seemed normal, some of them even jumping with glee. Then the following Monday I received a cryptic text from Tina. I’m sorry to report that we lost all the carp. Jun said they exhibited weakness after a heavy rain on Saturday night. Maybe it’s true that rainwater carries acid. The submersible pump has been running to pump in oxygen but it did not seem to help.
Omigod, I lost my fishibees, I lost my babies! I remembered when I just moved into Lily Pad in 2001. The pond had not yet been filled. I was studying at AIM then and enjoying the company of my classmates. I told Jaime Garchitorena how worried I was about my pond and its potential for a heavy, noisy frog population. “What do you think?” he said, “That the frogs are just gossiping to each other? ‘Hey guys, there’s a new pond in the neighborhood. Let’s all jump in.’ Don’t be silly, Barbs.” They all called me Barbs.
Then when the pond was filled and I received five carp as a gift I was so pleased. And the frogs did come in to invade. That’s why my column was then was titled “Lilypad Lectures,” sermons I gave to the hundreds of itty-bitty frogs sitting still on my lotus leaves, just staring.
But the carp were precious. Every time I walked out on the bridge they would come over and swim, milling at my feet. I would feed them bread and they would finish it. I called their names. There was Romeo, whom I held responsible for propagation. Imagine, I began with five. Two of them died but three continued to make little carp until they hit 30-odd. There was Tisay, white, orange and black, the only tri-colored carp I had. She was a glutton. I will never forget one Sunday morning when birds up on my roof were cleaning out their nests and one threw one of her eggs — probably a weak one — down. It splashed into the pond and Tisay swam and swallowed it. Then she couldn’t move for a while and I spent that day anxiously watching her. Would she die from the bird’s egg? I thought I noticed her eyes bulging more than usual. But she lived until recently when they all died, like someone had poisoned the water.
Was it the rain? Or was it the sudden cleanliness of the pond, the removal of all those potted plants under my direction that suddenly upset their environment? What caused the death of my beloved carp? We will never know.
Maybe it was my impulsively removing all the plants that had provided them with the oxygen they needed to live. Maybe the rain was hyperacidic. One of my friends said that carp die often in place of humans so maybe I saved 30-odd lives somewhere. Or maybe I am meant to sell my house soon and since I loved my fish so much I first had to let them go. How could I have let them go gracefully? So maybe that’s why they were taken away, suddenly, abruptly, in the wink of an eye, and all of them together.
Goodbye, my beautiful beloved carp. I loved all of you well, including those I called the name of my archenemy, the small ones with lots of black speckles. I enjoyed every moment we had together. You made my stay in Lily Pad beautiful, warm, full of lovely memories of your presence, your reaction to my voice, your response to my term of affection.
“Fishibees,” I would call and you would all come swimming, swarming at my feet. I loved you well and I know you loved me, too, but you had to go. Thank you for being my friends. Thank you for lighting my life.
Goodbye, my beloved carp. Rest well. At least you will fertilize the growth of new vegetables. At least nobody ate you.
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