Would You Make Me a Sandwich?

Mom and I were driving north on I-17 out of Phoenix when the strangest thing caused me to stop eating my sandwich. In the middle of the freeway, illuminated by the headlights, someone had written, "I'm sorry." Seriously—right in the middle of the freeway, someone had written their apologies to...someone. I couldn't help but think, "Must have been something big," because who—in their right mind—would write phrases in the middle of the freeway?

1 mile later—a second phrase. "Mom—are you seeing this?" I ask, but she's away—far away, as she has been lately, since dad passed away. Just off in her own space listening to her own music of the universe. She reaches over and puts her hand on my leg but that is the extent of contact. The 2^nd phrase is illuminated in the night: "Please come home." Mom chuckles, quickly and quietly. Maybe she was seeing it. Maybe it made her think of dad. Maybe she had an inkling for a quick instant to take the words to heart and drive us off the road to "come home" to him. Who knows? I didn't delve into her need for space and time, but with that came a bit of uneasiness of not knowing exactly where she was in her thoughts these days. It had been a month since dad gave in to cancer, 3 weeks since the funeral. No one—certainly not I—expected her to pick up and move on from losing her beloved. That morning, however, she decided she needed to get away. We packed up the car with clothes and pillows and necessities and were headed to see my Aunt—her sister and only sibling—in the middle-of-nowhere New Mexico, situated between Las Vegas and Raton surrounded by miles and miles of open space. Time and space. More of what she needed.

The next message was, certainly, the last one.

"You are my best fr..."

I put down my sandwich. No more for me. That message and its abrupt ending was so ominous and unfinished—without any reason. Did the cops catch this lunatic author who was using the freeway as their canvas? Or did some random car come around the bend, not expecting a random artist to be decorating the blacktop, bring our Hell-bent Hemingway to his end?

We both knew—mom and I—that dad's time was coming, but his passing felt just like the abrupt end of that message. One moment there, one moment not. No matter how much we had tried to prepare for his departure, no one could have prepared us for when he was, truly gone.

"Mom? You want the rest of my sandwich?" I softly asked. No more for me. That sudden cut-off had caught my breath and churned my stomach. So unsettling.

As before, mom stayed focused on the road. Nope—no sandwich for her. No surprise there—obviously, she'd been eating-somehow, somewhere, something-to keep up energy and, simply, living, but not in front of me. Not in days. I wrapped up the remainder and out it in the bag—whether it would become leftovers or trash, time would tell. I reached for mom's hand and entangled my fingers with hers. She squeezed back. She was there, the reminder was welcome. I wanted, in return, for her to know I was there, too. Although a couple years into college and out of the house most of the time, I was right there, with her, on this journey. She drove on. I turned in my seat, still holding her hand, and closed my eyes to nod off to sleep.

*** *** ***

Aunt Holly's house is an old (read: OLD) farmhouse situated next to I-25 North miles away from anything in northern New Mexico. Once a month she drives into Santa Fe and stocks up on everything she needs at the stores and then returns to her happy solitude. Her driveway is the interstate, her yard is a vista of miles and miles of high desert hills, save for a peeling hotel billboard on the official edge of her property. There are no fences or barbed wire separating it all. Anyone could park on the shoulder of the freeway, walk across a small grass strip, across a frontage road, and right into her yard—but parking closer to home was, simply, safer and more convenient for bringing in the aforementioned heaps of monthly groceries. Aunt Holly never married—she said she wasn't the type. She started as a writer which turned, with the technology, into online blogging about "roughing it" in the northern desert. Various writing awards had given her money here and there to sustain herself, and she made enough in other jobs and hard-working ways to keep food in her stomach and a roof over her head. She has a cat, her laptop, a nice, old-fashioned kitchen, fans for the windows, and a truck to get from here to there. She says that's all she needs and, somehow, she gets by just fine—always has, and probably always will.

We arrived at Holly's in the late afternoon, just as the sun on the distant vista was starting to paint the sky in vibrant colors. Despite a couple stops for gas (a welcome luxury thanks to Hybrid technology), we'd driven straight through, and both of our pairs of legs showed us their ungratefulness for lack of stretching when we stepped from the car and onto the dirt "driveway" in front of Holly's tall, white house. As I saw my Aunt gather herself from her dining room table and make her way to her screen door, I gathered up a few wrappers and the leftover sandwich from the night before and brought them to a tall, metal dumpster a few steps away from our car.

Holly opened the screen door and walked down her few steps to come greet us.

"Hi, sweetie," she said, smiling, as she wrapped her arms around me tightly. I embraced her back, my chin resting on her shoulder. I lingered in that embrace—feeling the warmth and closeness of her touch—her encompassing welcome, taking me into her arms. I breathed deeply as I took it all in. I turned my face and kissed her cheek as I broke away, and she moved to mom.

Holly walked toward her sister, at first smiling, and then, "Tsk...oh sweetheart." Mom's tears started to flow, and flow, and flow, and mom collapsed in her sister's arms, sobbing. "Ssssh...sssh honey, you're here now. Sssssh." I stood by and watched these two women, huddled, one supporting the entire world of the other. And there they stayed. I quietly walked to the car, sliding my hand along mom's back, opened the back door to grab my bag, closing it, and made my way inside, leaving Holly to, somehow, bring mom back from wherever she'd been and into this place—this safe, open, welcoming place.

*** *** ***

It was well after 11 when I made my way to Holly's kitchen, opening her fridge to find something to eat. Holly, illuminated softly by laptop light, sat at her dining table, working. Mom was laid back in a recliner, resting, softly breathing. I gathered makings for a small turkey sandwich, grabbed a glass of ice water, and settled in at the table by my Aunt.

"Did Mom eat anything?" I whispered, taking a bite of my sandwich.

"No, sweetheart. Went right to the chair when we got inside, been there ever since." I nodded. "She'll be all right," Aunt Holly said.

"I know—she always is, somehow," I responded. I took another bite and a drink of cold water.

"How are you?" Holly asked, removing her reading glasses and closing the laptop. I swallowed a bit hard—it seemed like years since I'd been asked how I was.

"I'm...I'm here. I'm upright. I'm just...I'm tired." I took another bite. I almost cried, but didn't. I'd shed so many tears already and tears simply burned my eyes. They didn't make me feel better. They didn't bring anyone back. They just made my nose run and my eyes tired—and maybe that was the reason for my current fatigue, all the crying that had already occurred.

Holly reached for my hand. "I know you are, baby. I know you are. Your dad was the best—the best father, the best husband, the best anyone could ever ask for. I miss him, too, very much."

"Aunt Holly? Who do you talk to? Mom's been silent—and that's understandable. But—maybe...maybe, if you know...?"

Holly softly chuckled and patted the laptop. "I talk to the world. Somewhere, someone is always listening." I exhaled slowly, taking the last bite of my sandwich, washing it down with water. "Do you have all you need in your room? Did you start up the fan in your window?"

"Oh...no, I haven't yet." When you come from a place where fans are hardly ever put in windows and AC is relied on to automatically cool your home, such things slip your mind.

"Why don't you grab a shower and get some sleep. Get that fan into your window beforehand and it'll help cool it down for sleeping. Go get some rest. I'm going to finish today's paper before turning in, myself." I smiled and withdrew from the table, bringing my plate and glass to the sink. I returned to Holly, hugging her, kissing her cheek, and wishing her a goodnight before climbing the stairs to turn in for the night.

*** *** ***

Toweling off and pulling an oversized t-shirt over my head and boxers over my legs, I made my way into my bedroom. On the open side, an old, noisy box fan pulled in cool night air which had already started to make the room a comfortable sleeping temperature. On the left side of the window, I could see out into the horizon. Closer by, I saw a few cars and a few tractor-trailers rolling down each side of the Interstate—travelers and workers making their way to wherever they were headed, north and south. The large trucks with their multitude of lights decorated them up like mobile Christmas trees, making their way through the darkness. I took my towel and left my room to bring it back to the bathroom.

As I made my way back to the bedroom, I heard a soft voice from downstairs, an almost unfamiliar sound. It stopped me in my tracks.

"Holly?" It was mom. I felt like I hadn't heard her voice in months.

"Yes honey?" Aunt Holly replied.

"Would you make me a sandwich?"

You could hear the smile in Holly's voice. "Sure, baby." I smiled along with her, and a single tear rolled down my cheek. I walked into my bedroom and climbed into bed.

*** *** ***

When I woke, it was the middle of the night. I stopped by the bathroom and, for no good reason, made my way down the stairs. All the lights were out. Aunt Holly and mom had each gone to bed. Open windows in the kitchen above the sink and by the table brought in sounds of crickets and traveling vehicles. I peeked into mom's room and saw her sleeping peacefully. It made me smile to see her sleeping. Finally, after the month that had been, she looked still, calm, and at rest.

I returned to the stairs and stopped. Instead of climbing back up to my room, I turned. I slid my feet into sandals by the front door and quietly opened it, then the screen door, and walked outside. I quietly closed them behind me and made my way down the steps and onto the dirt. It was so dark—night seemed so close and yet I knew that I was surrounded by open expanse; the moon was my own source of light, shining off in the distance a brilliant glow. I walked, passing mom's car, and continued. I walked over the frontage road to the line of grass beyond.

No cars, trucks, or semis were anywhere to be seen heading northbound, so I walked, calmly, across the Interstate, right lane, yellow dashed line, passing lane, shoulder.

The median was an expanse of grass separating the north and southbound lanes of I-25. It had recently been mowed. I made my way to the middle and stopped. I sat down.

A small car passed headed northbound. A large fast-food semi passed headed south. Neither took any notice of me—who would notice, let alone acknowledge—a person, in the median of an Interstate, in the middle of the night?

I sat, feet together, hands in my lap, sandwiched between roads leading here and there, and took a deep, cleansing breath of the cool night air. A northbound semi passed in the left lane, blowing up a breeze, tossing my hair over my eyes.