journal

The Best Sandwich

This is a reflection I wrote a while back after a visit with my Mom in 2022. I am deeply grateful for those I have leaned on these past few years and for every moment I get with Mom. Thank you for reading.

The Best Sandwich

A few years ago I was home visiting my Mom. I was aware a major shift was happening with her. Over the previous few months, she had experienced countless falls and several broken bones. Even though we were still a year or so away from an official Alzheimer’s diagnosis, her situation was rapidly deteriorating. Two months after this visit she would need to move into a nursing home.

In spite of everything that was going on with her, she offered to make me lunch. Not wanting to be a burden on her, I politely declined and told her I could make something for myself. I realized quickly this was a losing argument; I acquiesced. Mom was determined and I could see it was very important for her to make me lunch. I watched as she haphazardly shuffled into the kitchen, her unsteady hands taking a plate from the cabinet. 

When I sat down to eat, it hit me. This would be the last meal my Mom would ever make for me. Instinctively, I snapped a quick photo with my phone (notice the comically large amount of grapes). This was the curtain call for a scene that’s played out countless times since I was a boy. She sat with me while I ate. We chatted. We watched the birds out the window.

When I finished she asked, “How was it?”

“The best,” I replied.

2022






NEW NORMAL

I hope this finds you safe and healthy. These are frightening days we are living in. There is an overwhelming sense that our way of life has changed permanently. Outside the window of my Brooklyn apartment I have a view of some yellow tulips blooming, completely unaware of the heaviness of the moment. This reminder of spring is short lived as I’m brought back to reality by the ambulance sirens. This has become the only consistent soundtrack of NYC life lately.

Walking through my Bedford–Stuyvesant neighborhood, every face I pass is concealed by a mask, showing only fearful eyes. Navigating the aisle at the supermarket has evolved into a delicate dance called social distancing. I’ve landed a role in a strange movie that I didn’t rehearse for. Yesterday I found myself walking down a deserted street, accompanied only by a drone flying slowly down the middle of the road. Talk about a dystopian nightmare!

I’m scared for my friends and loved ones back home. It has been difficult to be hundreds of miles away from them. I’m scared that I myself am going to get sick. I think this may be the first time I have ever been truly scared in my life. The stress and fear has irritated my tinnitus, adding my own internal sirens that do not quit. Meditation has become a daily routine in attempts to stay sane and (somewhat) calm. 

So what do we do with all of this? Most of us are worried about staying healthy and afloat financially. All my gigs for the foreseeable future have evaporated. If left unchecked, these fears can easily become all encompassing. I’ve been so grateful for the many telephone and Facetime conversations I’ve had with friends and loved ones. There have been moments of wonderful connection despite quarantine. As this new and uncertain way of life settles in I find myself unconcerned with the normal trivial bullshit. Things that seemed so important even just a month ago are vague memories. When the situation has felt so hopeless I have found moments of great humanity. 

In some ways, being a musician all my life has been training for the social distancing situation we find ourselves in now. Hours spent alone in my room with my piano and guitars, Muddy Waters records, and stacks of books has been my normal for two decades. Last night I found myself sitting on the steps of the brownstone where I rent a garden apartment. It was about 3:30am and for a moment the quiet wrapped around me like a blanket. A deep breath and I am overcome with a feeling of gratitude. The struggles ahead are undeniable. We owe it to ourselves and each other to continue to create, be kind, and not waste this precious time.

As I get up to head back inside, red flashing lights of an ambulance fill my street as it silently comes to a stop at the apartment next door. After loading up a patient, the ambulance silently drives off.

Take care of one another.