Making a sandwich
is a constructive proposition.
Gracefully spreading the condiments,
lovingly placing
the meat,
the cheese,
the fluffy green leaves of lettuce.
Finally the two sides meet.
An arranged carbo marriage.
My mother,
who no longer makes sandwiches,
still relishes them.
Her favorite
is peanut butter and jelly.
She has its name written
on a small piece of paper
by her bed
in the rest home
so she won't forget.
Again.
My daughter prefers jam
with her peanut butter.
Or pasta, and no sandwich at all.
The "sandwich generation" is a misnomer.
I'm not a symmetrical union
of bread and whatever.
I'm torn in two.
2 comments:
Blessings on your torn places.
I understand.
I wrote in my book, Mothering Mother: A Daughters Humorous and Heartbreaking Memoir, that I think the term "sandwich generation" is inaccurate. Sandwiches have no pressure--they just lie there--all easy.
I termed it the "vice grip generation" because I certainly felt pressure caring for my mom full-time and raising three daughters--on top of marriage--and the remaining shreds of a life.
You get through because you have to, because you're a woman of incredible strength and reserve--even though it doesn't feel like it.
~Carol D. O'Dell
Author of Mothering Mother,
available on Amazon and in most bookstores
www.mothering-mother.com
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