Wish You Were Here Mr Fish


Whenever I go on vacation I feel compelled to send myself postcards from my destination. Such was the case few summers ago. After having spent 3 weeks in some mountain resort, I bought a dozen postcards to send back to friends and family and myself of course. On the last night of the vacation, few friends and I returned to the hotel intoxicated beyond belief. It was around 4 am when I’ve realized I still haven’t done my postcard routine. With slurred language and shaky handwriting I slapped on few sentences together to tell I’m having a great time and couldn’t wait to see whomever I was writing to. I’m pretty sure I declared my love to one of my friends who was gay. It was a bit tricky explaining that later on. After writing to my friends, I went on to write a few words to myself, licked a few stamps and out they went.

2 months later I’m back in New York. The postcard from me to my parents was hanging in the kitchen. On my desk though were 3 other unfamiliar letters. I instantly recognized my handwriting but couldn’t remember when this happened. Then I see who the postcards were addressed to. Apparently I wrote to my cats. One postcard for each. I asked if they were being fed and if they miss me. And yes it was addressed to “Mrs. Cat”. That would explain the 2 postcards yet there was a 3rd one. It was addressed to “My Fish”. I posed some intellectual questions such as “do you like your fish bowl?” or “what are your thoughts on life after death?” Beside the postcards to my cats this wouldn’t be so strange except the fact that I never had a fish.

I’m pretty sure my parents framed the postcards just to show of my stupidity. I blame the alcohol and the mountain air. And maybe the hidden need for a fish.