Bones – A Short Poem by Philippa Robinson

As a child we take a lot of small actions for granted, as adults we notice more than we ever could have back then.

Here's a short piece about things we only understand much later in life.

You made the best tuna sandwiches.

A slow tin opening to release the brine,

A firm squeeze to make sure it was all gone

Because you knew I didn’t like the taste.

Then, with careful turns of the fork,

You split the flakes so they were just right.

The perfect amount of mayonnaise;

Not so much that it made the bread soggy,

But enough so that it became

A thick, pale paste.

I make them now for my child.

Breaking up the flakes,

Adding the perfect amount of mayo,

Until it makes a soft squish, squish as I stir it.

Just how I like it.

Just how he likes it.

But then, one day, I see it;

A small white curve,

A fleck no bigger than a trimmed fingernail,

Hiding between the flakes.

It’s hard. Unforgivingly sharp.

An interloper in the tin of tuna,

Waiting for some unsuspecting throat,

To swallow it down;

To hurt, to cut, to harm.

Hidden inside something

As innocent as a tuna sandwich.

And suddenly, I know.

There was always more

To the perfect sandwich.

More than taste.

More than method.

So now, when I make them

For my child, or for me, or for you,

We break the flakes first

Before the mayo...

To look for bones.

Because there is more to being a mother

Than we realise as children.

And more to the perfect sandwich

Than just the taste.

There is love in the method.

Love in the making.

And in the eating.