Well, here’s what you don’t understand. He stole more than fish.  

Tuesday morning. The sun is shining. My morning routine is flowing smoothly. Little did I now, my happy sanctuary was about to be violated.

I remember walking through the bedroom, fastening my watch on my wrist. I looked down at my cat and made the normal derogatory remarks I always use to greet her.

“So, where have you been all night? I suppose you are planning on just sleeping the day away now, aren’t you? What about the dusting? What about the laundry?” The cat made her normal excuses.

I completed my walk across the room to the French doors that open onto the backyard.  Light was glinting off their square panes of glass and the wind was flirting with the trees outside. The place screamed serenity. It screamed security. Airtight fence. No wandering, untidy dogs could possibly enter. Gate tightly latched—from the inside. No passerby could invade.

And the fish—oh, the fish—circling and dipping in their underwater kingdom, completely innocent. The biggest scare they had ever experienced was the rumbling of a distant lawn mower. Well, once the cat made eye contact with Big Mike, but Big Mike sized her up right away and calmly blew her a bubble kiss. The cat left in a huff.

So, there I was, there the cat was, there the sun was, there the pond was.  You know how when something catastrophic happens, it happens instantly? One moment you are one way, and the next moment you are another? There is a moment; an actual marker that divides the “is” and the “is not”—a split second of separation. Well, that’s how it was. One moment I was berating the cat for her slovenly habits, looking down at my wrist, and the next I looked up and saw the thief. The marker had passed.

You can’t imagine my horror! An immediate surge of adrenalin sent my heart pounding.  I whispered to the cat, “That’s not good.”

There, rising like a monstrous pterodactyl, was the crane. Was it a sandhill? Was it a gray?  Was it a blue? Did it have a funny, little top-notch feather on its head? What was the wingspan on that thing, anyway? Just some of the questions friends and loved ones have asked me. I can’t really answer. I have the image in my head, but the details blur. I just knew trouble had come to call.

Who would have thought of an air attack? Who could have prepared for such an event?  It was crazy—beyond crazy. It was evil.

I was out the door, screaming like a banshee. The crane glided effortlessly over my neighbor’s house, his eyes politely averted. I dashed to the pond. Where once there was crystal water and sparkling rocks, lay a murky abyss. The waterfall still sang, but it sounded off-key.  My eyes searched frantically for any sign of life. I saw none.

“Oh, no! Not every one!” Images flashed through my mind---a scene from “Animal Planet” where the gigantic bird tips his head up with a fish in his beak and takes a big gulp.  Breakfasting, over and over and over.

I left the pond. I returned. I left. I returned. I’ll just go back once more to be sure they are all gone. They are all gone. They are all gone. Jangling nerves. Disbelief. Grief. Guilt. Should have made them a place to hide.

Two hours later, I approached the pond with clenched jaw. The water had cleared. I empathized with every victim of every robbery, suddenly understanding that each one is a double crime. You lose something you own and you lose something you feel. You lose some innocence. You lose security.

Well, that old Big Mike was still there after all, not as bold as before, but hovering quietly. And there was that orange and black with the funny face. She was hovering, too.  And the next generation was mostly intact—all facing south like a mixed-up compass needle; all facing south like that was a talisman to ward off creatures with long legs and long beaks; all facing south, like they had somewhere to go.

Oh, thank God! The hated bird hadn’t completed his meal after all. But the twins—the lovely twins were gone! Beautiful sisters in white gowns with orange headdresses. When they ate, they kissed the surface of the pond indelicately. They swam in tandem. They formed alliances against Funny Face so that she had to hide in the rocks. Strange markings between the eyes, and I thought, “That’s good luck.”

These orange and white koi are the most prized in Japan, and I know why. They shine in the water like beaded purses. They stand out against the mossy backdrop—pleasing to the eye.

Oh, I know the twins were hateful and rude. I know how they teamed up, but you can understand that. Once you start living like that, it’s hard to stop—hard to go back.

So, my good luck fish were gone. Mother’s Day gifts from my stepchildren on our first Mother’s Day together. Naughty twins, snapped up. I bet they were surprised. I bet they wondered what the heck was going on. Still, they went together to their fate, leaving the lesser fish to survive. And I, who felt so guilty for failing them, recognized the luck after all.

I think the crane saw them first—spotted their shining scales easier than the rest, and there you have it. They pleased his eye, too.

Now the pond looks like a bomb shelter—like a bunker. In my haste to avert any more raids, I covered part of it with a folding screen from the house. When I look out the window, I see the results of those fateful moments, and my desperate attempts to protect my pond.

Of course, the fish are traumatized. You know, people don’t think much of fish. People think they are lowly creatures with no sense of self or others. I know better. They know each other, they know serenity, and sometimes they know terror.  

People have to live where they live, and I don’t mean a geographic location. They live at a level—a level of intensity; some deep, some near the surface, and some dipping and circling. I live intensely—too intensely sometimes. Everything is everything to me.

So, is it a big deal that a thief came to my house? Is it important that a lanky gangster invaded “my turf” and took his “cut”? You bet it is. And do I miss the unkind twins who just cruised around, looking good? Yes, I do. Do I make every event into a meaningful metaphor and drive friends and family crazy? Yes, but they love me. They put up with me.

So, what is the metaphor then? Maybe it’s this. We work and we plan and we move through time, thinking we can control our experience, and then a long-legged something drops by and proves us wrong. We find ourselves powerless. We find ourselves miles off our carefully plotted courses. And then what? What to do with this lesson? Maybe just recognizing the value of the pond –the effort is enough. Maybe just finding joy in the pond again, sandbags and all.