Now when my father can't even recall his wife's name,
he still remembers that salami is his favorite food.
I see us all at Rockaway Beach,
the stained paisley quilt squeezed between
rented umbrellas and striped canvas chairs,
Beach 35th Street, close to the knish and hot dog stand
even though we never bought anything.
But mostly it's the scent of salami
and fresh seeded rolls that stays,
sandwiches thrown together early on a Sunday morning
when Dad awoke to a sultry sun and declared it a beach day!
Although Mom complained that she'd nothing for lunch,
we always had a Hebrew National salami in the fridge.
At times like this, Dad would volunteer
to pick up rolls at the bakery
while Mom scurried around the house
in search of the plaid, insulated beach bag
and the blue Coleman jug to be filled with Koolaid
or some other sweet concoction,
and always a bag of over-ripe peaches and plums for dessert.
And the ride home in the car, salt-water hair
pasted back by the breeze,
damp swimsuits with sand digging into skin,
unable to breath deep from the salt in our lungs,
not knowing then that the taste and smell of
salami and rolls with seeds
would outlast the memories of a fifty year marriage.


© by Norma Ketzis Bernstock.
Used with the author’s permission.