The moment I picked up that dying fish, flopping in the sand, the salt on my tongue, sun in my eyes, I wasn't Hannah. I was the fisherman's wife, saving an enchanted fish. I was the wide eyed girl drunk off the words of a tale, late at night, under the covers, sneaking each sentence as each sound around the house meant imminent trouble. When I gently lifted it up and dived into the sea with it, being gentle as I could, I was swimming with my grandfather in Montauck, amazed he actually jumped into the ice cold water. The fish wouldn't swim, helplessly floating on it's back and I was the little girl, crying because she came home to her fish floating in her little glass bowl. But it couldn't be dead, like how my dog came home, hit by a car, guts coming out of his side, but still breathing. When I talked to the fish, gently telling it it couldn't give up, I was out my counter sighing over my math, convinced against myself I could do it..yet I could not. When I threw the fish, hoping somehow it would regain strength, I watched it fly throw the air for three seconds and land into the water. I remember learning to swan dive and I would feel like I was flying, then hurling to the water in an embarrassing flop. My legs curled too much and I thought I just couldn't. Sometimes things stop fighting, so other fight for them. I think about babies and how we are literally their voices, their fighters. I leave the water and walk to the shore, grandparents looking sympathetic yet impatient. I sometimes look at my brothers when they are close to tears but too strong or weak too admit it, full of sympathy and think..well that is life. But is it? The sand is hot and sticks to my wet feet..a small sand storm follows me wherever I go. Two boys kick sand at something moving on the sand..their dad yells "DON'T TOUCH!" I run to the fish, blood a puddle around it. I won't let it go. It has to live. I remember the swallow that was pushed out of its nest. I named him Dandylion and I took care of him. I even told him about flying, created places outside for him to practice. I tried to fly with him..holding onto some small hope, that deep inside flying is only a matter of how hard you believe. I saved Dandy and one day he flew away. I can save this fish. I throw him back into the water, over and over again. He can't swim, his fin is injured. I wonder why I care so deeply for this fish, a little bigger then my hand. I know if I leave him on the beach, that is part of nature. He will be a meal for the squeaking pelicans..part of life. But somehow this fish is part of my life. He feels bigger to me. I can't let him go without a fight. I talk to him, refusing to lose him. I want to save the world and so I start with this fish. I am afraid to fail. Fail at life. What if I can't change the world..want if I can't feed hungry bellies or help orphans? What if my writing is meaningless trash? Does it make you cry? Make you smile..make you laugh? When I pour out my soul..do you see melted brass? So here with this fish, I try to touch its fragile life..help it. It sounds ridiculous, even wrong. And eventually I must accept, Herbie is a meal for the pelicans. I let him go, watching his frame float back to the sand bed. I want to run back at him, throw him back in the water. When I was younger my dog killed my favorite chick and I wanted to breath life back into it, pull part of my dogs life and breath it into the little chick. For a moment I hated my dog. How could something so innocent be so brutally destroyed? I want to chase all the pelicans and seagulls, away from the beach. Then they couldn't hurt this little fish, that I inexplicably had bonded to. But soon I realized sometimes you can't save the fish, sometimes you do fail, it turns out you helped the seagull..and sometimes..that's okay.