homemade

soft, white bread.
chilled turkey; iced, snapping lettuce.
safety in comfort.

i take a bite.

yesterday,
lunch was homemade.
the same sandwich.
no haunting silence.
no stinging sirens.

a fragile shaking smile.
eyes flutter like struggling butterflies.
get well cards loom like skywriters.
he's half shaved,
vulnerable.

another bite.
trapped in food and fear.

it's no one's fault,
what the brain grows.
ideas, hopes,
tumors.

i regret mindless frets.
don't want neighbors' food.
don't want plastic wrap.
or vending machines.
because lettuce won't let us survive.

i just want dad.
looking at me,
asking if I'd like
one more
turkey sandwich.