I pull a loaf of white bread from the cupboard and slather a heavy helping of mayo on two slices. A bowl of round and supple beefsteak tomatoes, plucked from the garden, sits beside the sink. I place the ripest one on the worn cutting board. Tomato water seeps from the flesh as my knife slides through it. I’m not sure why I’m even making Mom a tomato-mayo sandwich. She hasn’t eaten anything in days but it’s her favorite, she says. She grew up dirt-poor, so her favorites are her favorites because she hasn’t experienced anything better.
