The Sandwich

vat of tomatoes. I was drawn to the tomatoes first. I can’t explain why. Some things are just meant to be.

Maybe it was their brilliant red color. Or maybe it was their R-rated shapes. Or maybe it was that the tomatoes came in all dimensions, all shades, all varieties. A vivid palette of reds, pinks, yellows, oranges, purples, and zebra-striped greens. Misshapen, exploded-looking things, with prickly stems, and blemished skin.

There was the marvelous smell of tomato vines.

Grassy and green, like fresh lawn clippings. Sweet and peppery.

My mother bought several pounds of heirlooms in a brown paper bag. Then, she walked to the station wagon, carrying the bag in one arm and me in the other. There were groceries in the car, cooking in the backseat of the old Ford. The ice cream had melted. The butter had gone to be with Jesus. And right then, right there, she prepared a tomato sandwich. Wonderbread. Duke’s Mayonnaise. Salt and pepper. The finished sandwich was lopsided, topheavy, and about the size of an average preschooler.

I took my first bite.

One of the tomato slices, lubricated by a slathering of mayo, slipped from between my bread slices and fell to the earth. My