Most mornings, I make a sandwich
and most days, it falls apart a little
in its container in my lunch bag.
My lunch involves scooping the innards
and tucking them into my mouth.
I don’t mind because it’s just me, after all.
But when I make a sandwich for someone,
I take more care. Things don’t fall apart.
I thought pitas would help- they’re
bread containers themselves but no,
my turkey peeks out and
my provolone unrolls outside the pocket.
I have to laugh, at my sandwich-making,
about how I’m settling for myself,
even how I notice something so stupid.
A couple of weeks ago, I splurged for
Italian rolls and they held my stuff together.
But it felt like a luxury, and not penance
and that sort of shocks me, seeing as
I’m a recovering Catholic and thought
I had left the guilt of being born behind.
I think of mindfulness as I eat my sandwich.
I think about not feeling worthy.
I think I may need some mayo next time.
The Word Rummager 
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