A Farewell Toast (eulogy for a sandwich)
I am not dressed appropriately for this, with a red mess of guts on my blouse. Your guts. Yellow bits of little yous drying on my chest.
You were a summer tomato that tasted like fall, warm and bright but on its way out. Fresh off the vine but not fresh. The last one purloined from a garden, sliced thick and liberally embalmed with pepper and oregano (also purloined), and laid to your final rest on buttered rye toast (only the best).
You did not go quietly. There was an indecent amount of lip smacking and groaning in satisfaction. A little dribble down my chin. You gave so much.
Who even eats plain tomato sandwiches anymore? Old people. Maybe this eulogy is for me instead. Devoured but savorily remembered.
This is wonderful, Misty, I wish you’d post every time.
Thank you! I know I should commit to writing something short for Bamboo Shoots every month and commenting on others. I go through weird phases and sometimes sit on my writing for months (or years). What do all the hustle bros say? “Success is 80% consistency and 20% grit” or something like that.