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)
vitalwholeness 