Memories on Rye I remember the delicatessen. Four hours of debating and fifteen minutes of driving. We make mental sandwiches, stir our mental soup, and eat our mental fill. The car moves along the road, every crisis dives out the window onto the Trivial roadway. Nothing impending, nothing looming, just a memory on rye. It doesn’t matter if the car is crooked, it may as well be the toothpick in our yet- to-be ordered sandwiches. Wait in line, marvel at the mozzarella, contemplate the canoli. Mom is comfortably freezing. Dad thinks I can fit in the smallest corner. Brother works on his equations. I just savor the juice of the moment. Drinks are ordered. Mother has iced tea. Father has a Diet Coke. Sprite for brother and me. Wait…Wait…Wait. We make way as if a caravan of gods had arrived. Food at last! Salad suits mother. Brother dives into shepherds’ pie. My wonderful memory on rye sizzles with joy. A Reuben. Two layers of heaven, containing all the corned beef, sauerkraut, and the and all the Russian dressing you can fathom. The bill is paid. The tip is left between the crumbs. My memory on rye lives on.
