Usually when you win a goldfish at a carnival, it lasts four, maybe five days. Being jostled around in a plastic bag sealed with a tiny rubber band doesn’t set the stage for a long and healthy life. I won one of these goldfish when I was six. I named her Rainbow. She was the first pet who was all mine. I fed her fish flakes, regularly cleaned her bowl, bought her fresh aquarium plants with sea snails, and talked to her.

On the night of the huge October 1989 earthquake, I returned home from piano lessons, pushed past my dad and raced upstairs screaming, “How is Rainbow? Is she still alive?” My dad called after me, “What about your old man? Aren’t you concerned if I’m ok?” He still jokes about this today.

Rainbow lived for eight years. I loved her, knowing she beat the odds. Some friendships are similar. The ones formed randomly at a Meet Up, while cycling, or sitting next to at a coffee shop. The chances of making a lasting connection were as slim as a ping pong ball finding its way into a glass bowl. But those friendships miraculously beat the odds. They are tender and timeless. Which makes me love and cherish them even more.