Memory

Stinky salmon pate. I hold that pungent, brainy-looking mound responsible for blasting me with grief.

Last Thursday night seemed harmless enough. I stopped by my brother's home to drop off a box spring he'd been storing in my garage and to wish him a happy birthday. We sampled some rabbit stew he and his girlfriend made. And he sent us home with a loot from his garden and some soft cat food snubbed by his finicky feline.

Upon arriving home, I headed straight to the kitchen where I knelt down to scoop the dejected goods into our new kitty's dish. Then, it happened.

Deja vu describes the sensation of feeling you've experienced something before. This was not that. I had absolutely experienced this before. One year ago to the day, as a matter of fact. My vision blurred as nausea and gut-wrenching sorrow swept my body. I staggered a bit as I stood, placed the remaining cat food in the fridge, washed my hands and began making pizza dough.

On precisely that same evening the year prior, I fed my sick cat, Val, some medicinal-strength-odor soft cat food. She would be put to sleep the following day. My experience with loss had, until that point, been minimal. Her death shook me up, but, of course, time healed.

It's funny how a simple moment reaches into memory's depths and elicits emotion so fresh it seems you're experiencing it for the first time.