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.