Memories

I like to keep my memories wrapped in plastic in the bottom drawer of the refrigerator, like fish from a get together that not everyone opted to touch. I can still see their ribs and their flesh through the clear envelope I wrapped them in each time I open the drawer, and I can even smell that fishy smell mingling with the plastic, but, I don't unwrap it until I want to remember.

I slap it on the counter and pull open the plastic ferociously, hungry to hear the sizzle of the fish on the pan. It's skeleton is soft between my fingers. I touch it and feel it under my skin, smiling as the memory floods back to me. The pan is hot on the stove, so I move the wrap to the side and slap the fish in the pan. Smoke rises and greets my nostrils like an old, forgotten friend.

I say hello and let everything mix together in my mind, my hands, and the pan.