A sandwich. Opening up a paper bag, then working my way through the carefully wrapped waxed paper to find the sandwich my mom would make when I was in grade school. Just something between two pieces of bread, which should have been so simple, but it was a work of art when she made it. She would slice it in half diagonally, which made it seem even more magical. No matter how bewildering things might have gotten, opening up that bag made it all seem manageable.
Mom’s been gone for two years. And I’m not the least bit hungry, but I could sure use that sandwich right now.