vitalwholeness

Sandwich

Every time my hand spreads mayo

on slices of bread for a sandwich,

I see my father’s hands.

Long after the grandmothers left

following our mother’s death

the kingdom of men sullied forth,

the house of boys.

Every school day morning

our father made an assembly line,

bread lined up across the counter

on a long row of paper towels

adding one ingredient at a time

down the line, moving left to right,

cheese, bologna, repeat.

Add a bag of chips.

Place the sacks by the door

to be snatched by the inmates

of the castle of quiet grief.

At the time I was as mindless of his labors

as a dog receiving its morning ration.

Unless there was some interruption,

I had neither grievance nor gratitude.

But now my hands are older,

older than his were then.

Every time knife slides over bread,

I remember, a memory untimely born,

late but not too late,

saying the thought out loud:

You did well, I know,

though I never told you.

These hands give no quarter

to forgetfulness.

(Tim Carson, January 2025)