'The Canadian Salmon' by Sue Kingham

Back home in Canada, bears are black or brown, not white. This polar bear in Tokyo Zoo is a ghost. In eerie aqua light, it swims circuits: down, across, up – down, across, up.

I come to see him most days after work. There’s a large glass viewing window below ground. I press my face to its cool surface. Small bubbles of air float up from the bear’s long muzzle. His eyes are black ice, ears pinches of porcelain. He runs through the water, fur swaying like seaweed in the swell. Sometimes, and this is why I come, he halts by the glass where I’m standing, and reaches out a paw to me as if to say, I understand how you feel.

Every morning I join the commuters: a Canadian salmon swimming amongst black suited minnows. My pink skin and fair hair attract attention. Unable to read the station signs, I feel as if I’m drowning. The same routine each day: coffee, emails, reports – coffee, emails, reports.

When I practise my Japanese phrases by the water cooler – “Ogenki desu ka?” my tongue feels as large as the polar bear’s. My colleagues humour me, “Thank you. I well.”

Today I missed my station. I gulped for air searching for the train back. I floundered all day: spilt my drink, missed a deadline, lost a file.

I visit the zoo on my way home and press my hands against the glass. The bear swims towards me, for a moment our palms align.

My salmon heart leaps.

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First published in the Bath Anthology Volume 3: Things lost and Found by the Side of the Road, in 2018.