This Year

For me, there’s nothing like it. Sitting at the head of a very well-laid table, reaching out on either side and grabbing the hands of those closest to me, looking at the smiles, the heads bowed, the food steaming. I love it. It’s how I express my care for others — to feed them. It’s so much a part of who I am. 

Not this year. 

I have to admit that saddens me a bit. It’s like the definition of “me-ness” has changed. And, although it’s far from existential dread, it’s just weird. Weird piled upon weird. 

For the past decade or so, I would insist that Thanksgiving dinner was at my house. About this, I was unmovable. Crowd or intimate group, travelers, or those nearby. Thanksgiving was at my house. When others offered, I would say something like, “I’m a total control freak, and it would just make me happier to host.” About Thanksgiving, I was brutally honest. I haven’t really parsed exactly why I have confronted myself with that self-awareness until this year. To be honest, I never really gave it much thought. 

When I was a kid, Thanksgiving was always hosted on some sort of bizarre rotation between our house, my Aunt Pauline and Uncle Orlin’s house, or Uncle Julian and Aunt Glenna’s house. It wasn’t a huge topic of conversation, usually around Halloween, we’d ask, “Where’s Thanksgiving this year?” Then, the answer came. After my parents died, and there was an unfortunate turkey-cold-cuts-and-jello-salad incident (I won’t go into that, but you know who you are and what you did, and I understand completely, and I forgive you), I would have Thanksgiving with my buddy Brien’s house. Then I moved west, and the hosting began. The insistence began. 

But, again, not this year. 

As I was preparing a shopping list for my latest masked adventure to the grocery store, it occurred to me that Thanksgiving dinner is one of the only meals I can make, start to finish, from memory. No recipe required. Granted, there might be a new pie to pull together or something I’d like to try, but I usually don’t mess with Thanksgiving. I just don’t. And I don’t really ever wonder why not. Is that tradition? Is it my tradition to be so fixed in my reasoning? My thinking? My capacity for change? Or am I just being stubborn? Or … why is it so important to me? This coming together. This wonderful joining of hands. The glances across the table. The contentment. 

Not this year? 

Next week I will fill the house with the smell of butter and sage, cinnamon and apples, roasting turkey, and the best fucking gravy you will ever know in your short life. No doubt, none of these smells will be as strong as in the past. The smell might not linger as long. But they will be there, even if it’s only for the two of us. 

And you all will be there, too! My family and friends, my aunts and uncles, my parents. Most likely stronger than ever before. And you are all welcome. 

And, this year, that will have to be enough.