I just found this blog today. The task: a writing prompt. Write for ten minutes. There must be a sandwich included. So here we go:
Every day he makes me a sandwich. I don’t know why, I never asked for one.
But he keeps making them.
Not always the same kind, and not always at the same time of day. Once I left the room to go to the bathroom, and when I came back there was a sandwich sitting on my chair, beside the book I had been reading.
Ham and Swiss.
Once I woke up late at night. The house was quiet, the clock ticking in the hall. The cat was sitting beside me, alert and interested. There was a sandwich beside the bed.
Peanut butter and banana.
I don’t see him making the sandwiches, and I don’t see him delivering them. He is as silent making sandwiches as he is at all other times. I rarely see him, straight on. I usually only catch glimpses of him, leaving a room that I am entering. It is quiet.
Yesterday there was a Reuben in the mailbox. Today a BLT sat waiting on my keyboard. I don’t know what sandwich tomorrow will bring, but I know there will be one, and that I will eat it. I eat all of them.
He shows me he loves me with his sandwiches. I show I love him by eating them.