My uncle used to have a perch as a pet. In a beer crate sized fish tank. I giggle at the absurdity of it, but thinking it is funny sometimes gives me intrusive thoughts about the connections between animal cruelty and psychopathy.

The other week I printed pictures of perches and hung them on my   studio wall. I often lean over the chair and stare at them carefully. Meticulously.

     Experiencing a bizarre parallel to my childhood.

Fifteen years have gone by but I have not asked him about it.

What if it is just a fabrication of my mind?   I made it up and now everyone will laugh at me because of course he wouldn’t have a perch as a pet, that’s unreasonable! Ridiculous!   

I only have a few memories of my childhood. This is one of them. Would be kind of a bummer if it is untrue.

Maybe I will question him this upcoming christmas.

           (I will not. We will drink the type of snaps that looks like piss and settles down like a warm fist inside your rib cage.

              He will tell me it is important to know your roots and persuade me to speak the language of my ancestors. It will make me slightly uncomfortable, mostly because I am ashamed of my own incapability,

        (the estranged city kid coming back to the village, how embarrassing, how dare I)

but we will have a great time. Fantastic. There might be smoked perches to eat. The smell of juniper thick in the air. My granddad will provide me with some even though I have been a vegetarian

   (once again embarrassing myself)

for more than ten years.)

I think about my uncle’s perch a lot.

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By Ronia Johansson originally published in the first issue October 2023.