Pool Sandwich

I'm convinced summertime is going to heal me.

Summertime is making a BLT in the middle of the afternoon. Thick slices of sourdough bread slathered in a zesty homemade chipotle aioli. A layer of crispy bacon paired with juicy campari tomatoes tucked between silky butterhead leaves. I am on a sandwich crafting kick in the dog days of July. Each sandwich I make becomes a portal to somewhere surprising and familiar.

The smell of bacon brings me back to being a babe in my grandmama’s kitchen. She cooked a breakfast spread every single day in that season of life. Photographs help me to remember the warm swirl of color that filled that long gone space. Pea green, faded yellow, and panels of brown wrap around my heart. I imagine myself back then and how I would perch atop a wooden stool to mix the perfect glass of chocolate milk. Loud scrapes against the bottom of a cup. Chunky baby legs just about ready to sprout. I swear I can still hear the shuffle of papa j’s socks against carpet tiles. I help myself to the bacon, going in for more and more. Grandmama always teased she might need to make another batch for everyone else. Imagine starting each day with such tender care and warmth.

I’m back sometime in June and I see a video on TikTok about pool sandwiches. I swipe through inspiring recipes highlighting bursts of flavors from garden fresh tomatoes, basil pesto, creamy mascarpone, crunchy cucumbers, and crusty breads. Salivatory descriptions promising crunch and cream, tang and heat.

My body wants to take a dip in a pool. I think about easing myself into the cool water, bracing my hands tightly against the ladder’s hot metal rails. I want to spread my arms out wide. To hear nothing but the dull hum, clicks, and pops underneath an aqua glow. My millennial worries of parking situations often block my intention to get there. I research the closest public pool, the cost of a reservation, the opening hours, and look for which one has optimal shade. My internet history reminds me I have followed a very similar path the summer before. Preparing a pool sandwich feels like the first step toward this desire.

The last time I was in a pool was with my on-again, off-again best friend. It was a summer long before covid-19, at the edge of when our friendship went wobbly the first time. A moment when we still believed in young things like forever & always. Time has a way of pairing memory with collected feelings, making connections to create an emotional archive. Deep within the stacks a new thread of our friendship evolution peeks out. I pin up the memory from that last dip in a pool. I bring out the shadow side of my trust and hold it to the light. I pull out the last texts my friend sent me and cut around the devastating words. Relatable subjects weave through unexpected events. When I step back to take it all in, I see a beautiful collage. We’ve been cutting and pasting and pinning and taping and folding and flattening ourselves to create the picture of forever & always. On-again, off-again. This time I understand this to be the end.

I’m convinced summertime is going to heal me. Open me up and show me something I’ve been missing. I recently attended a dear friend’s introduction to mindfulness session. I keep thinking about the anchoring meditation and about bringing myself back to the present moment. I breathe in, focusing on the air coming through my nose, and gently exhale. A cloud of doubt hovers over my head, reminding me I am doing everything wrong. Today I will focus on making one sandwich. I ground myself in feeling full. I notice the need to feel a bit fuller.

On the first day of September I swipe a thin layer of a beautiful canned jelly on a pillowy piece of bread. On another slice I coat a thick layer of peanut butter. With this sandwich I am folded into the simple warmth of being a kid. I sit down in a sun dappled chair and think about a new chapter beginning to unfold.