When Kimchi was young, her favorite day of the week was the day I cleaned her bowl. She would swim wildly, maniacally, in circles, covered mouth to tail in small bubbles that stuck to the blue slivers in her fiercely red flesh.
When Kimchi got older, we took to feeding her live brine shrimp now and again, when she lost her will to live and refused to eat otherwise. Her warrior heart would overrule her weariness. She would puff her gills and prowl about the bowl, fluttering her fins to fan up the small, ghostly creatures that were hiding under the black rocks.
When Kimchi died, she simply slipped off the leaf of the plant she had curled herself so often upon, and rested on the bottom of the bowl, staring into the dusky light with one blank, beady eye. She did not float.