Turkey
Club

A blustery Thursday in March. The patio umbrellas snapping like sails. My sister, visiting from Denver, wearing my jacket because she refused to believe our spring could be this cold.

She has always been the better athlete. Volleyball, softball, a cartwheel she can still do on command. But putting is about patience, and patience has never been her sport.

On the third at PopStroke Fort Myers, a double-breaker, she charged it six feet past. On the fourth she charged it eight. I said nothing. Some silences are a form of love.

Lunch on the patio, collars up, and I ordered us each a turkey club sandwich. A proper one. A sandwich with structure.

Turkey breast, sliced and stacked. Bacon, smoky and crisp. A handful of arugula, peppery and green, a little rebellion against the cold. Roasted tomato, soft and deep and almost jammy. Garlic mayo spread with real conviction. All of it on toasted ciabatta, that wonderful bread with a crisp, golden crust and an airy, open heart. Alongside, house-made chips and a pickle spear, because a club sandwich without companions is just a sandwich in a tie.

She ate in silence. Then she looked up and said, "Okay. I'll slow down."

On the back nine she lagged a forty-footer to within a foot and pumped her fist like she'd invented patience. She kept my jacket. I never asked for it back.