The Last Morning at the Fish Stall

Bianca woke at four o'clock, as she did every day. It was dark and cold. She made tea and drank it by the window. Today was her last day at the fish stall.

She was sixty-eight years old. For forty years, she sold fish at the street market. She sold cod, trout, and small silver fish for soup. Her back hurt now, and her hands hurt too. Her daughter said, "Mama, it is time."

At five o'clock, she arrived at the market. The street was quiet. The only light came from a lamp over her stall. A young man was already there. His name was Emeka. He was her helper, and he was twenty years old.

"Good morning," Emeka said.

"I put the ice out."

"Thank you," said Bianca. They laid the fish on the ice, row by row. The fish were bright and shiny. Bianca touched each one with two fingers. She did not think about it. Her hands knew the work.

At seven o'clock, the first customers came. A tall man bought two trout. He did not say anything about the day. He just put a few extra coins on the table.

"That is too much," Bianca said. "It is for the years," he said. Bianca looked at the coins. She did not answer. She put them in a small tin.

A woman came with her little daughter. The girl pointed at a fish. "That one has big eyes," she said.

"He is a good fish," said Bianca.

"He saw a lot of the sea." The girl laughed. Her mother smiled, and they bought him.

All morning, people came. Some brought flowers. One man brought a small cake in a paper box. A boy gave her a drawing of a fish. Bianca put the drawing on the front of the stall. Emeka said, "It looks like you."

"The fish?" she asked. "No. The smiling face." She laughed out loud. It was a deep laugh, and it surprised her. At noon, the crowd got smaller. The sun warmed the street. Bianca sat on her old wooden stool. She looked at the scale, the knives, and the apron. She touched them all, many times.

Emeka sat next to her on a box. "I am a little sad," he said.

"Why?" she asked.

"You are young. You have the whole market."

"I do not have you."

Bianca was quiet. Then she said, "Listen. When the ice melts, pour the water on the street. It keeps the dust down. And never leave the knives wet. And always smile at people who buy one fish."

"Why them?" "Because they come back the most." Emeka wrote it all in his small notebook. He wrote slowly, in big letters.

By two o'clock, only five fish remained. Bianca put them in a bag for Emeka. "Take these home," she said.

"Cook them with butter and lemon."

"But this is your last day."

"Yes. That is why you cook them."

They cleaned the stall together. They washed the table and the scale. They folded the umbrella. In the end, only the blue apron was left. Bianca took it off its hook. She held it in her hands for a long time. It was old and soft. It smelled of the sea.

Then she gave it to Emeka. He took it without a word. Bianca picked up her tin of coins. She did not look back. She walked up the street in the afternoon sun. Behind her, a metal hook rang. Emeka hung the apron up again.