I fed the cats today.
None of them were mine.
None of them are anyone’s but everyone’s.
Neighborhood cats.
Chunks of tuna in gelatinous matter,
all four felines eager with hunger.
If I closed my eyes, I wouldn’t be able to tell the difference.
It smelled just like tuna in spring water,
from a tin can, the kind we use
to make tuna sandwiches,
for human beings.
The kind my mother used to make for us when we were kids.
With mayonnaise. Sometimes with celery or onions.
We’d slap on a slice of processed cheddar,
and cut the sandwich diagonally.
Somehow, it tasted better that way.
This thought made me nostalgic—
for childhood,
for what was,
for family,
for things to un-change.
I want to rewind and pause.
I miss my past—even the parts that weren’t great.
Like when I was in kindergarten and lost my lunch money,
only to learn that a friend took it,
because she forgot hers.
Or when I locked myself in the bathroom at the mall,
and couldn’t get out.
Or when the volleyball coach screamed at me,
just me,
in front of everyone.
Or when my mother and uncle fought.
About what I couldn’t understand,
but it was the first time I saw my mother,
hysterical.
What a dream it would be to relive those days,
even the not-so-great ones,
like the tuna sandwiches we used to eat as kids.
I admit.
I didn’t quite like them.