Where Is My Fish?

I have a fish. He is little and orange. He lives in a big glass box on the table by my bed.

Every morning I look for him. Where is he?

On Monday he is behind the green plant. On Tuesday he is behind the white rock. On Wednesday he is behind the little door in the sand.

My mom says, “Nico, a fish doesn’t know us. A fish knows water and food. That’s all.”

This morning I look for him. He is not behind the plant. He is not behind the rock. He is not behind the little door.

He is at the front of the glass. He looks at me. He waits.

“Good morning,” I say.

Every morning is good. This morning is better.