Sick. and memory.

My mother told me once, when I was in my early 20s, that when she was a little girl, her grandmother (whom she adored) would give her baloney sandwiches and tea when she was sick. She told me that when she has a cold, she--my vegetarian, health-food particular mother--craves the memory of those baloney/white bread/yellow mustard sandwiches.

Ever since then, I have wanted to eat baloney sandwiches when I'm sick.

I'm sick now. My sandwich--nitrate-free turkey baloney from Whole Foods, arugula, French camembert and Maille mustard--is not quite the same as hers. But I've always thought of it as a better memory of my great-grandma.

I remember her house being close and small and stuffy, and I was usually carsick when we got there. My grandpa's youngest brother had Down's and I was never quite sure how to deal with quiet, kind Vinnie with his odd face, round belly and plaid work shirts. I know stories about her--she was deeply loved by her children and even her daughter-in-law, my grandma. My mother has said that most of the happiest memories of her childhood were at her grandma's house.

Except the baloney part? It never happened. It really is a baloney story.

I brought it up to my mother a year or two ago and she said, "I don't remember that. That wasn't me. It's a lovely story, but she never gave me that."

Memory, to me, is an organic process. As long as our memories are alive, so are the people we have lost. And for something to be alive, it must change.

So I still eat baloney when I am sick, because although the facts may be wrong, I know that my great-grandma would have taken care of--did take care of--my mother when she was sick or ill or lonely.

And just as the sandwich data changes from wonder bread to ezekiel bread but remains in essence the same: baloney, bread, mustard--what remains is that memory of a bond, of love.

But I wonder: who the hell told me that story?