The Filling in the Sandwich

I used to love watching my mother make sandwiches. She put just the right amount of peanut butter and jelly, egg salad or sandwich spread in the middle before the slices of bread pressed together and my lunch was ready. Before she placed it on the table she would cut it in half from the middle to one corner, turn the plate around and finish the job. Coming home from school for lunch brought me comfort, brought me sustenance, brought me my mother.

Memories like that are precious to me now. The more common the better. Somehow it is those simple moments, those times with my mother and father, my sister, our family friends, all those simple events that make up a life. Those memories we worked so hard to create and to hold onto. Those memories now live with me but elude my mother. They have escaped her grasp and vanished into the depths of dementia. Daily I am aware of another piece of my past, another piece of my family that has disappeared and I grieve for the parts of my family that no longer exist.

At the other end of the day I work to create memories with my grandchildren, these most amazing children who live with us and enthrall me with their simple presence, their mere existence causes me to marvel at the wonders of the world, the universe, the miracle of their lives.

I live the sandwich. I am the peanut butter and jelly, the egg salad and sandwich spread. My mother is one slice of bread and my children and granchildren are the other. My husband rests somewhere in between, with me.