What My Childhood Tasted Like

Because I am still very young, I clearly remember what my life was like when I was a small child. Even now, I silently envy those days where my past self could play without a care in the world. I recall one point in my life where my Great Grandma Wilma would care for me frequently. It was long enough ago that I can't differentiate between the times I was being cared for and the times I climbed up to her room simply because I enjoyed my time spent with that kind, thoughtful woman. We would relax in her warm apartment located in the upstairs portion of her daughter's house, and we would have so much fun together. She and I got along splendidly, and we would chortle together and host tea parties for the plush golden dogs in the basket beside her bed. Those fleecy animals were always my favorite; I would carefully arrange them around me so they would envelop my small form as I cuddled them close to me.

The regular occurrence I remember most distinctly, however, was how we would set up a small, wooden table in front of her little box TV for lunch. She would sit back in her creaky old rocking chair and I on the floor, and we'd watch Animal Planet together. Both of us would have kippered snacks with saltine crackers as we sat in front of the glowing screen, staring in fascination at the new and strange worlds in which wild animals roamed.

"Oh, sweetie, turn that thing off!" she'd chuckle whenever coiling snakes slithered across the screen. Looking back, I realize she disliked them quite a lot.

The fish we ate was pleasantly soft; not so soft as to be considered soggy, but the type of soft where it would fall apart into delicate little flakes in our mouths. I would always scoop a portion of the savory seafood onto the crisp, light crackers, eating them together. The fish consistently smelled strong, but not unpleasant --at least not to those who were eating it-- and I began to tie the nautical scent with a sort of homely comfort. My mouth would water eagerly whenever I heard the swift popping sound of the aluminium can being pulled opened, the aroma of brined fish wafting through the warm air to my little nose.

"Come over and grab your plate, Brynn, lunch is ready," I'd sit right up at the sound of her wise, soothing voice, more than ready to start eating. I remember so well how we would enjoy ourselves in front of that screen full of vivid pictures, sitting in the comforting warmth of her familiar apartment, chatting cozily and eating kippered snacks to our heart's content. Neither of us gave any heed to the vast gap between the years we had lived. To us, it didn't matter. To us, it never had.