My yesterdays are always better than my todays. This I know for certain, but I haven't decided whether my todays are better than my tomorrows since I don't know how those are going to go yet. I usually spend a good portion of my todays creating a million different tomorrows until I realize I keep coming back to the one version that makes me curl up in my covers a little tighter, and before I know it, my ears start to pool with tears. My stream of consciousness floods into my stomach until a thick soup of desolate fears and doubts simmers inside of me and I become too full to eat anything anymore.
In fact, I feel like I don't want to eat anything ever again, but Dad cares about my well-being too much to let that happen. He'll let breakfast slide but not lunch, and I'll end up agreeing to eat leftover pasta from the night before. I really like second-day pasta. Mom reheats it in a frying pan which causes the peppers and onions in the sauce to caramelize and the resalted noodles to get slightly charred so that they have an extra bite to them. I eat my pasta in a bowl and stab three noodles at a time, making sure there is at least one onion or pepper with each bite. As I eat, I feel myself becoming hungry again and I finish all my pasta. When I'm done, I'm full but not full enough. So, I snoop around the pantry for something to fill me up. It's only when I'm halfway through my second bowl of Cocoa Puffs that I start to understand it is not my stomach that needs filling but something else, something that won't be satiated when I reach the bottom of the bowl. But I finish the cereal anyways.
Actually, I think my tomorrows are better than my todays. My tomorrows are usually not as bad as I think they're going to be, and that makes them even better, but it makes my todays so much worse. And that's a problem because my todays will eventually become my yesterdays and I don't want my yesterdays to feel like my todays. Because if my todays burn my yesterdays away and my tomorrows are replaced by todays, I will have nothing beautiful left to hold onto and nothing worth holding out for. Dad comes into my room. He tells me it's time for dinner and that Mom has made my favorite: cajun jambalaya. He kisses the top of my head and ruffles my hair before heading back downstairs. I feel a little better now, maybe even good. And when this today becomes a yesterday, I'll be glad to have this moment tucked safely away so that I may feel a little better again.