tomatoes

today i made a sandwich in the kitchen while my family was gone. egg salad. sliced hard-boiled eggs, lettuce, and cheese on toast. i also added a few tomato slices.
before i cut it, i had to take it out of the produce bag.

i paused, thought of how it felt. i squeezed the sides gently. they responded with a little give, not too much. unwrapping it, i thought of how my grandmother used to serve gigantic slices of juicy red tomoatoes when my grandfather grilled. i would eat as may of them as i could before my tastebuds began to burn. when i couldn't stand it anymore, i'd move on to pickles dipped in ketchup on a bun.

the slicing of the tomato brought me to a more recent memory of watching dan make his sandwich before work. always the same procedure. toasted bread spreas thinly with mayonnaise, then topped with chunked tuna (about half a can, seasoned with basil and some other italian spices), slivers of red onion, lettuce, tomato, and a slice of american cheese. he always crafted them with precision, bending down a little so he could get a better view of his work. finally, he'd lay the second slice on top of the sandwich, pressing it down gently to cement the pieces together with his wide palm. i could hear the toast crumble beneath the pressure. generally then, he'd lick the knife clean, and cut the sandwich in half diagonally. then he'd step back and just for a moment look at the plate, as if in his own mind he were saying, now that's a sandwich.

i put away my lettuce, cheese, and tomatoes, thinking about the way things constantly change. my grandmother has alzheimer's now, and can hardly recognize my face, let alone recall the little things she did to make me happy. there has been no macaroni, no chocolate pie with whipped cream for a long time now. i don't know that there ever will be again. as for dan, he'll continue making his sandwiches just the same. only now, he'll be the only one appreciating his consistency. i will be somewhere else, in another kitchen, wondering what will happen next.