Joseph Norris / Sandwiches from the Deli/Bakery

Sandwiches from the Deli/Bakery Joseph Norris

My mother is a baker. 28 years. Her hands have carefully constructed an empire of icing; that's her specialty. Home alone, I call her work. Heidi in the deli/bakery.

Her voice the savior from the smooth light jazz: the suited & sunglass-ed man in the pale yellow, cone-shaped spotlight, fluid with oceanic waves of cigarette smoke surrounded by the deep gray silhouettes of heads, hats, shoulders & cherries that blip like the ends of airplane wings at night, or radio towers: antennas to channel the signal as the bass from his saxophone solo is lost in translation from the telephone receiver to my ear drum. The treble to make his message shallow and transparent.

Could you bring some sandwiches home? The kind with the thick, sesame seed buns - the kind that made the other kids jealous. The kind with meat & cheese stacked over and over until it looks like bins overstuffed with oriental rugs & runners rolled up in a warehouse with shelves to the ceiling. The kind that made me kiss her cheek. I want two, please.