Counting Fish

10/15/2025  /  Ariel Stewart
Logo that reads Boars Tusk Creative Writing with a black background and white lettering with a white book graphic.
Boars Tusk is a literary journal publishing poetry, fiction, nonfiction, artwork, and photography by Western Wyoming Community College students and residents of Sweetwater County. The journal provides a forum for students and community members to showcase their work and gives the journal's staff members hands-on experience in producing, editing, designing, and publicizing the journal, skills that will be valuable in the workplace. If you would like to submit your own creative work, learn more here.

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40 days and 40 nights, Mr. Mickle folded origami fish. Once he folded a fish, his shaky hands used an untrustworthy paintbrush. His cataracts were forgiving of everything except the color. As the days went by he would scribble on a sticky note and make another fish. Sticky notes held onto his refrigerator, his nightstand, even his coffee maker. He moved about like a whisper among leaves. 

Today's fish was blue, just blue. He gently put it into a plastic bag at the foot of his bed. His shaky hands pulled the socks off his feet and flung them into a basket, and he lifted his legs under a thick blanket. After another day’s hard work, he drifted to sleep. He whispered into the dark, “That was good.” 

He woke up with a crick in his neck and an ache in his knee. He hobbled into his kitchen and went to the stove. On the spice rack there was a sticky note that read: Eat breakfast. He brought it close to his face. 

“M’bout that time,” he smacked his lips. He opened the fridge and found some bacon and eggs with a sticky note on the eggs: Buy more eggs. 

When he sat down to eat he found a sticky note on an old newspaper saying:  Work on fish, get dressed. He ate by taking one bite and chewing it until he felt certain he was ready for another. He could get through a whole bowl of cereal in 30 minutes. After his breakfast ritual, he made his way to his bedroom with a few more notes.  

On his nightstand, he lingered on a picture of a young man and a young woman at their wedding. He touched her face. His heart felt a rush of sweet sadness. 

 

He got dressed and went out to the garage. Folding some paper until it was soft and pliable, he cut out scales, found some button eyes, and struggled getting the fins right. 

“I’ve been waiting to see you again, my dear,” he muttered. 

 

He met her in a dusty library while looking for a book his teacher required him to read. She was reading about the history of Rome, pretty as can be with tennis shoes and farm jeans on. Mr. Mickels stacked a few more books into his arms so he could look well-read. 

“I’ve read that one,” he told her with an easy smile, “and I don’t want to spoil it for you but Rome doesn’t do too great in the end.” He had not read anything about Rome. 

She looked up at him coyly. “Gary, I’ve never seen you read anything but the classifieds in the newspaper.” His face flushed. He scratched his head. 

“Well, I sure could use some help with some of this reading, if you’d want to go out Sunday night, get a bite to eat… and read?”  

She looked up at him surprised before her warm smile fell on him. 

 

Rosa’s face faded away from him. Tears splashed into the purple paint underneath him as he painted each scale before gluing them onto the body.  

“I’ve missed you.” 

The sun went down before he was finished. After his purple salmon was completed to his satisfaction and ability, he wandered back inside to put it in a bag and go to sleep.  

The next day a vacuum in the living room roared in tension with his alarm clock blaring. Peeking out of his bedroom he saw a friendly face humming and cleaning. 

“Don’t be touching any of those sticky notes, Liz,” he grumbled. Yellow paper flaked to the ground like paint chipping off an ancient house. He tried bending over to pick some up, but his back cracked. He huffed and puffed. 

“Mr. Mickels, if you wanted to paint the walls yellow, you could have asked,” Liz poked at him playfully. “I’ll try to move around them as much as I can, but your house needs to be cleaned.” 

“Fine, just try to put them back where you found them. I am paying you, you know. I’ll be in the garage.” 

As he sat in his chair, the cold ground seeped through the soles of his shoes. It felt the same in the hospital when he was visiting his daughter.  

 

He picked up some shiny yellow paper and started folding. 

His daughter was in a hospital bed, legs wrapped in casts and bruises all over. She looked at him with her eyes half shut. 

“Hey dad. Sorry about your car.” 

While remembering, Mr. Mickels found this fish harder to fold than plenty of the others. He almost did not want to finish, but he said to himself, “Get a grip, you don’t have much time.” He focused on the face. 

“The doctor says I probably won’t be able to walk again,” her lip quivered and her tired eyes were puffy. 

He held her hand and put it to his cheek. “Legs heal all the time.” He was trying not to cry. 

“Hey, at least I can still beat you at ping pong,” her voice sputtered, half laughter half tears. “We just might need to make a shorter table.” 

 

The memory was cut short by Liz yelling into the garage, “Mr. Mickels! I’m going to the grocery store! I’ll be back.” He shook his head and started doodling stars all over his shiny yellow fish. As he finished up that one fairly quickly, he started looking around strangely and put his hand on his head. 

 

“Emilia? Emmie?” He started rummaging in the boxes stored around him to the sides of the garage and saw a box labeled Emily. In it He found pictures and stuffed animals. At the bottom of the box he found a ring. He held it in his palm, feeling the weight of it. 

“Well, how ‘bout that.”  

Inspired, he saw some frilly pink paper and decided to make another fish. A fun one so the sadness didn’t linger. 

 

His daughter’s wedding was outside. She had a carpet runway so her wheelchair didn’t have to go through grass. She married a tall man, a kind man. He built whatever she needed to suit her: better ramps, lower cabinets, wider doorways. What was his name? 

“I, Anthony, take you, Emily, to be my wife.” 

Anthony. Anthony and Emily. 

After he put a ring on her finger, she turned to her maid of honor, asking for her groom’s ring. Much to everyone’s dismay there was a lot of looking around to no avail. Emily lost Anthony’s ring so they had to use a ribbon from her bouquet. He later had that ribbon put into a custom ring for himself. 

Being beside her to give her away had been one of the proudest moments of Mr. Mickels’ life. 

 

“It was a good life,” he pulled the ring onto the tailfin of this silly pink fish. 

He went back into his room and put the fish with the rest. He looked at the calendar and noticed a circle on what would be tomorrow.  

 

40 days and 40 nights, Mr. Mickle folded origami fish. On the 41st day, he carried all the fish in leftover grocery bags and took two bags at a time down to the dock. He was fond of the lake by his house. The bags dragged and he would limp a little. As the sun began to set, he set his lantern by the edge and began dumping the fish into the water.  

The last light of the day hung low, hugging the surface of the water as it drew back to the horizon. The fish began to sink. 

He sat down in a tattered folding chair he affectionately thought of as his fishing chair until he fell asleep under the starry sky.  

 

Months later, Emily was going around the house with her husband. She kept bumping into boxes and there were sticky notes all over the carpet. She picked up a couple and held them. 

“Remember to forgive,” she read out loud, “Remember Emily.” She looked at a handful more. “Remember wife. Buy more eggs.” She held them close and Anthony put a hand on her shoulder.  

 

“I didn’t know it was this bad. I didn’t know until I called him, and he asked if I was his nurse for the day. That was days before…” Her lips pursed and her eyes shut. They made their way to his room, and she put her hand over the quilt on his bed that her mom made. Then she saw a letter on his nightstand. She held the letter in silence. Jammed underneath some of the picture frames on his dresser were some papers explaining medication side effects. There was a sticky note on the papers: Dementia, see fish. She picked that up too, “See fish? There were never really any fish in that pond. Darling, could you take me to the dock? Maybe he got some after all.” 

 

It was the end of winter, though in those parts it never got too cold. The grass was brown, but little tufts of green stood valiantly in defiance of the retreating season. The dock creaked and moaned as they approached the edge. She looked at the dark water for a while. Looking at the letter in her hands, she quietly and slowly opened it up as if it might bite her with a sudden movement. 

 

Dear Emily, 

I remember you today. I love you. I may not be able to tell you tomorrow, but it’s still true. Life is not perfect, but it’s good. We do the best with what we have. I got the better end of the deal as your dad. Now you can hopefully do better than I could. Tell Anthony I love him too. 

Remember. Remember. Remember. It is good to be alive. 

Yours, 

Dad 

 

She could barely see through her tears. A glint of light blinded her briefly and she looked up. In the water there was a fish and something on it was catching the light. Then many fish came up to the surface of all kinds and colors. 

“Look Anthony– have you ever seen a purple fish before? That was my mom's favorite color.”