What I Will Do

I will add more mayonnaise to my tuna because I like it white and smooth and then I will refrigerate it for as long as I can stand being apart from it because I like it cold.  My mother will ask me to bring her the cordless phone so that she can sit in front of the house and make phone calls.  I will not race to do this, but I will do it.  She will ask me again, and I will tell her “Hold on” in a voice that is reserved for her.  I will sit down at the piano and play a little something.  I will play it too fast because it is the only way I will remember how to play it.  I will stop playing and wish I could play by ear.  I will get upset that I can’t do it and go and sit on the couch.  I will leaf through an old photo album.  My mother will pop just her head inside the house and tell me how beautiful it is outside. “There’s a nice bit of shade where I’m sitting,” she will say.  I will nod slowly as if I know even though I didn’t know but it’s something I could have known.  I tell her that I am good.  I will grow impatient for my tuna and will take it out of the fridge.  I will throw away the tinfoil because I will suspect it smells of tuna and will never want to reuse tuna foil.  I will find the crackers and press a forkful of fish onto each one.  I will think about how to make this into a fancier snack.  A sliced cherry tomato?  A bit of dill?  Half an olive?  It is too late.  I have already finished eating.  I will run my hand along the counter to collect crumbs but will not get them all.  Not in my mother’s book.