In front of Ashanti and behind thick glass, blue-ringed angelfish darted around the tank, which stretched along an entire wall of the aquarium. A turtle glided into view and then disappeared around a coral reef. Sea anemones flailed their whorls of tentacles, reminding Ashanti of the tails of sperm trying to penetrate an egg. 

The room echoed with high voices as elementary school children pressed their oily fingers against the glass and pointed out floating turds to their friends. She tuned them out, focusing instead on the vastness of life undulating before her, the colors so bright, they were almost hostile.

“Did you know a group of bass is called a shoal?”

Ashanti looked down at the bespectacled boy, wearing a school-mandated field trip t-shirt. His was a few sizes too big, his thin arms shooting out of the sleeves like popsicle sticks.

“And that a bunch of ferrets is called a business? And a swarm of gnats is called a cloud.”

“You don’t say?” said Ashanti.

At her appointment earlier at the neighboring clinic, she had learned a stream of other terms: diminished ovarian reserve, laparoscopy, Clomid, endometrium.

Before she could ask the boy if he knew the name for a group of cells on the outside layer of an ovary, he skipped away across the room to where eels stretched in and out of shadows. She moved to the next exhibit, marveling at the perpetual activity in each tank.

Downstairs, squealing with each bray of the penguins, the students struggled to listen to the aquarium staff educate them about penguin lifespan, diet, and habitat conservation. Ashanti felt a tug on her arm. The same boy as before held a clump of her sweatshirt in his fist, a bag of chips in the other.

“Here,” he chimed, hovering the half-eaten snack in her face.

Ashanti looked up to see a dotting of chaperones – parents, no doubt – nervously eying the kids, a few silently counting heads. Many balanced piles of belongings in their arms—discarded coats, crumpled notebooks, hats. One leaned over and asked Ashanti if she, too, was counting down the minutes until the bus ride home.

Ashanti smiled, unsure how to answer. She wondered what a group of adults who didn’t know how good they had it might be called. A spoiling?

The woman lingered. “Which one is yours?”

An ache burned deep in Ashanti’s belly. She darted her eyes around the hall, not wanting to be accused of creeping. “Um, the short one over there.” She indicated a cluster of indistinguishable children chasing each other in circles. The woman nodded and pointed out a chubby-cheeked girl in striped tights and Paw Patrol sneakers, adding, “They grow up so fast.”

When the teacher started to usher out the crowd, Ashanti held back, pretending to check for forgotten items. There was a spot of grease on her sleeve from where the boy had grabbed her. She gently touched it and then reached for a chip. She made a kissing noise, calling to the flightless birds. Then, even though she wasn’t supposed to, she tossed them some food like they were her own.

* * *

Ⓒ Kimberly Crow

Originally published in WOW! Women on Writing, May 9, 2024. Reprinted here by permission of the author.