Friday, May 25th 2012 at R Squared Cafe
The Encyclopedia of Sandwiches
We called him Sandy and no, that wasn’t a short form. We thought he’d take to the beach and want surfing in his life if his name led him to it so effortlessly. He is tall, blonde, it is now perfect. He was a Sandy already; we just helped him a long.
When we adopted him, his birth mother hadn’t given him a name yet. She said that would be too hard. I judged her, I’ll be honest. I thought it a bit callous to let your newborn baby live without an identity for three weeks. She didn’t seem to be bothered by it. She was busy wiping the sweat from her brow and fanning herself with a paper program from her church. I think she said she was from Jackson. That strong southern accent was a Mississippi song I promised would never be played around our boy; around our Sandy.
She said she didn’t want any visitation rights, no open adoption to ease her troubled mind. She wanted to be a dental hygienist and she wanted to be good.
I didn’t mind.
I secretly wanted to go on forever without ever telling Sandy he wasn’t really ours.