There's
no "Pick up your Legos" or "Do NOT make a mess in the living
room! I just cleaned!"
None
of that.
We're
all grown up around here.
***
The
day before Thanksgiving, I bawled my eyes out. I mean, I sobbed and sobbed.
It's because of music. I had the grand idea to listen to CDs while I baked. And
then a whole album made me think of when were first married, and all our
college friends and how much fun that was. I didn't cry then. Not even close.
Thinking of college friends comes with pangs of anxiety and betrayal, almost
always. Not that day—I just had a happy feeling.
But
then I put in another CD--a compilation—and suddenly I was hit with such a
longing that I just sobbed. Because this is the first year that my daughter
wasn't home, and I miss her. I miss how pretty she'd make things, and I miss
asking her opinion and, sure, I miss her help. I love when she would be dusting
in the living room while watching Netflix, how she'd make things just so.
But
we're all grown up around here, and she's in Nashville with her husband and his
family this year. She's making her own pies and figuring out how to roast a
turkey and cleaning her own house. She's making her own traditions.
***
I
stopped listening to music and watched New Girl instead while I baked a
cherry/cranberry pie. And I thought about my father, as I always do when I make
pies, and how every holiday feels like it could be the last one with him. And
how will I cope... how will I... how?
And
back to New Girl, which is silly and sweet and utterly not sob-inducing.
***
Thanksgiving
day started quietly. No Macy's Day parade, no dog show. Those were things the
kids became enamored with just the past several years, so without them here, we
left the TV off. Duncan went to his girlfriend's house early. Randy prepared
the food; I prepared the house.
I
drove across town to pick his mom up. This past month, she's fallen deeper and
faster into dementia. Alzheimer's most likely, like her own mother. She was
"so surprised" to see me; she had "no idea" we were coming
for her. We tried and failed to find her purse, her keys, and her phone (she's
taken to wrapping things up and putting them in suitcases), but we successfully
found the cat.
All
grown up now, parents to our parents.
One
by one the cars pulled in: Jesse and his fiancée, one family, another family,
Duncan and his girlfriend, my parents. Champagne punch all around, and the
house if full to bursting. Dad turns off his hearing aids; it's all just
mumbling noise to him. Mom, the original party girl, is thrilled.
"How
many people are here?" she asks over and over.
"Fifteen,"
we remind her.
"Fifteen!
I beat our neighbor. He was having 11 people over. I can brag to him!"
"You
can!" we encourage her. A few minutes later she asks it all again.
I
don't let myself think too often of our girl. I don't let myself think that
this may be the last year my parents, now 92 and 94, are with us, or how far
gone Randy's mom might be by this time next year. I look at my handsome boys
and listen to stories. We laugh a lot.
 |
| Dad's usual after-dinner nap |
It's
not so bad being all grown up; in fact, it's lovely for friends to stay late
and play board games. The punch bowl gets refilled again and again. We nibble
at the turkey again, have more pie and whipped cream, break out the cheese
board and homemade Chex mix. The teenagers go out Black Friday shopping but
return within an hour or two. "It was boring," they report. "No
fights. No lines. No crowds."
Before
I go to bed, I text my girl. She's had a wonderful day, she says. She's sent
photos throughout the day, so I've seen her turkey and pies and, most of all,
her beautiful smile.
I
was dreading it just a tiny bit, this first Thanksgiving all grown up, but it
was actually one of my favorites ever. I am deeply blessed by this life, by the
sight of my parents across the table from me still, by my children love to come
home and be with us, by friends who make themselves at home and linger well
into the evening.
Grateful,
as always, to the giver of all good gifts.
The Gift
Be still, my soul, and steadfast.
Earth and heaven both are still watching
though time is draining from the clock
and your walk, that was confident and quick,
has become slow.
So, be slow if you must, but let
the heart still play its true part.
Love still as once you loved, deeply
and without patience. Let God and the world
know you are grateful. That the gift has been given.
{Mary Oliver}