The Tree House

It wasn't a big deal.  I don't know why he thought George should be buried instead of flushed.  He was just a fish.
          I found him floating at the top of the bowl.  I was carefully carrying the glass grave down the hall, but he saw me.  His eyes were half open, and from where I was standing they looked red.  But they usually were.  "What . . . are you doing?" he said.  
I told him, "My fish just died."
He wobbled off the couch and tripped over the coffee table and a forgotten bowl of cereal.  I knew that was going to happen.  He groaned as he crawled to his feet.  His thinning hair flopped over his eyes.  He pushed it away, then scratched his crusty face.
I set George on the coffee table so I could clean up the mess.  The kitchen rag was dirty.  I'd have to do some laundry later.
He called me out to the garage, "Come here and grab a shovel."  I scooped up George and started over until he said, "Oh forget it.  I will.  You can meet me outside."
I shook my head.  Why did he care?  I knew George didn't care.  I definitely didn't care.
I cared when he took me to the County Fair when mom left five years ago.  George came back with us after the ring-toss booth.
He was fine the first year.  He ate his food.  He came to me when I wanted him to.  Then he stopped responding, or even looking at me.
Eventually it got to the point where I had to beg him to eat, until he just refused.
Then George died.
I was sitting under the oak tree when he swished open the screechy screen door.  He flopped down the steps with the shovel in his hand.
The noise startled a bird, so I looked up to see it fly away.
The sky was so blue.  The way it faded around the edges made it look round like a bowl.  An upside-down bowl.  And we got dumped out.
As soon as he reached the tree he started digging.   He was awkward at first.  His face strained, almost in pain.  The strokes became steadier and smoother, and his face relaxed but it was still firm and determined.
His arms pulsed with every crunch and whoosh.  There was a muscle or a nerve, one of the two, that made his cheek twitch a little on every upstroke.  I'm not sure how big he thought George was, but the hole was getting to be big enough that he could fit inside it.
He couldn't fit in the tree house.  He built it the summer I turned seven.  I wanted it in the oak tree.
We went to the hardware store to get the wood and nails to build it.
We worked on it all day.  Mom brought us lemonade after it was finished.  We were gonna drink it inside, but he couldn't fit.  We laughed.  But that was a long time ago.
The shovel was still moving steadily but his face was softer, like it was melting.
He walked over to the tree and set the shovel down beside it.  He stared at the hole, then glanced in my direction.
I got up from where I was sitting.  I climbed into the giant hole and placed George at the bottom.  He helped me get out.
My dad and I filled up the hole together.