Sandwiched

My ancestors baked bread.

and now we buy bread.

I'm sandwiched in the middle of sweat and convenience, with a homemade slice on top and a commercial slice on the bottom.

And what's a girl to do?

I can roll out my ravioli, or pick it up in the freezer section.

I can sew a dress, or order it on Amazon.

I can bake my cake and eat it, too.

(or can I?)


With myriad ways to spend my strength, I freeze.

Distracted by the good of both, stymied.

I eat this life sandwich,

Ingesting the wholesome, rich slice my grandma made and longing for her presence.

The other slice doesn't taste as good, but because I bought it, I can write this.