Last night, as the light was beginning to slip away and temps were falling,
I ran under this golden tree.
I can't believe the yellow leaves are about to be gone.
They are my favorite.
It felt good to be out in the cold air and pushing myself,
alternating wanting to stop and the next burst of energy.
When I came home, I made a sandwich.
I've always been a tuna fan.
I found myself thinking about my Grandpa Carl,
who passed away in January of 1995.
Even now, twenty years later, I still think of my grandfather
when I make a sandwich with white albacore and
diced apples and shredded cheddar cheese.
That's how my grandma made a tuna sandwich.
(Apples and cheese?!! you say.
Does that sound weird to you?
Trust me.
Trust me on this one.)
I can still remember the determined,
deliberate way he chewed his sandwich.
I can see the way his mouth moved,
as I watched him across the table.
I can even hear it.
Funny, isn't it?
Such a simple thing, but it connected me to a man, my own blood, in the advanced stages of Parkinson's.
(One of my very favorite pictures of these two.)
If we weren't able to have a lot of heart-to-heart conversations due to his debilitating condition, we were able to share the love of a good sandwich.
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