On Saturdays at noon and Sundays after church
He’d head to the kitchen
and slowly gather the ingredients
to make sandwiches
on thin bread, or rye.
A modest smear of mayonnaise and mustard,
then roast beef or ham.
A slice of swiss cheese if we had it,
and a bit of tomato in summer- he’d hone the knife blade on the sharpening stone first.
A piece of lettuce, always lettuce.
A grind of pepper and a sprinkle of salt.
I’d stand to the side watching, my mouth watering,
wondering why his sandwiches
tasted so much better than anybody else’s.
I miss those sandwiches that tasted like childhood and love.