This time of year, is pure nostalgia. Tidbits of memories that float on a crisp fall breeze, darting under raised coat collars and in between still ungloved fingers. Memories that twirl around my belly and tickle my lips and sit in my belly.
So many Thanksgivings through so many different phases of life.
The children’s table.
A table filled with adults, engaged in heated discussion about the state of things. All the things.
Harriet and her corn pudding- golden, firm kernels poking through the top and a deliciously tender middle. Harriet and her sip of sauvignon blanc. Harriet and her kisses on the lips and the biggest hugs.
An aversion to turkey and then a tolerance to turkey and then an embrace of turkey.
Menus that attempt to be unique, followed by an anxious clinging to history and tradition.
Cartoon turkeys crafted from handprints, construction paper, and googly eyes.
Steaming mugs of cider, dotted with cloves.
An impromptu talent show.
Always the parade.
Sweaty dancing the night prior and leftover mish-mosh the day after.
Dresses and skirts and denim and so many pairs of tights.
Twenty people and three people and everything in between.
Flaky-crust pies and butter drenched mashed potatoes.
Board games and football.
Bric-a-brac place settings and perfected tablescapes.
Ellen in a fleece onesie. Ellen’s laugh. Ellen’s hugs.
Long walks.
Turkey trots in t-shirts and also, knit hats.
Traffic-plagued car rides and mostly full plane trips.
Chopping, dicing, mixing, stirring, baking, mixing, frying, fixing.
Feelings of joyousness and intense suffocation. Seen and ignored.
I remember every moment as if they are pearls, strung together on a singular necklace, one memory fit close to the one before it. I remember it all in a way that’s deeply comforting and strangely painful.
Through it all, I remember love. A deep, abiding sense of affection, for the season, for my people, for the abundance of it all.
Gratitude.
An appreciation for the ability to have all the feelings, good and bad. Sweet and sour. Up and down.
The ability to take for granted that I have people to share the day with, and the ever-pressing anxiety that I could one day, not.
The privilege of going to bed with a full belly and a fuller heart.
The knowledge that there is a broad world with so much pain and I’m able to insulate from it in a way that my soul craves. A reboot. A restart. A break.
There is so much talk about what the holiday means- how authentic it is, and how much of history it actually celebrates. What is the real truth behind Thanksgiving? Who is celebrated and who deserves such acclaim? Who was harmed and goes unrecognized? What is the reason for this day and in the end, does it matter?
We complain about the ever-encroaching threat of the shopping season. Once Black Friday on Friday and now, days prior. Scrolling through an endless montage of things unneeded but desperately wanted, and of course, at a discount.
We whine about holiday lights that used to go up after Thanksgiving and now, seem to emerge mere days after Halloween. It’s festive, they say. We all need some happiness, they explain.
And Thanksgiving? What is that, then? Is that not a day for happiness? Has the day become a milestone? Does it merely mark time between Dia de los Muertos and Auld Lang Syne?
I tell everyone that Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday. I explain- there are no presents to be bought. There is no pressure. There are no expectations. It is just love and food and rest.
That’s all. And for that reason, it’s a fan favorite. It’s mine.
I look forward to it every year, I explain. There is not a distinct before and after for me, but rather a day to look forward to. A time to savor. I don’t want to wish it away. I want it to stay, to linger, in that delicious way that other things do, like Sunday morning coffee or a Friday night bath.
I want to preserve each sparkle of a reminiscence and tuck it into a jar, storing it on a closet shelf where no one else can see it. And when I need it, I can open the door and peer inside, allowing the glow to warm the cold sadness of my face and the notable absences in my heart.
The brightest spots would ping around the glass and make a tiny sound, like bells in a breeze. And if I stilled my breath, I would hear it. The whisper of my memories…
I remember when Miles and Stella were littler. I remember when Harriet knew my face. I remember when Ellen giggled and danced around, sock footed and boa adorned. I remember when Doug and Sus had unlined faces. Hell, I remember my unlined face.
I remember wanting to know where friends were, and missing boyfriends, and then, a time when I missed no one at all.
I remember what it was like to be going home and coming home and then, new homes.
I remember and I know and I’ll look forward, as long as I can.
And so, when I wish people a happy holiday, a happy Thanksgiving, it’s a sentiment that comes from a place deep within me. A place that’s soft and vulnerable and filled with everything that makes us the best kind of humans. Beings that gather and love and celebrate. Beings that forget, for a moment, all the ways in which they are disappointed and sad, and instead, remember what it feels like to love each other.
And so, on this day, if you do celebrate (and even if you don’t), I invite you to think of those things. If you are alone. If you are not. If you have a place to go. If you do not. Remember that the tissue that connects us all is truly the very best part of us. So, really, we are not alone at all, after all.
Happy day of gratitude.
With so much love,
X
L.
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