Thanksgiving is so different now than it was when I was young. Some things are hard to describe though, hard to remember from so many years back.
The house rings with joyful sounds of family gathered together. I love just being here with so many cousins and my aunts and uncles and my four siblings. And all the hugs, genuine, happy, it’s-wonderful-to-see you hugs that you can look forward to every year. Big, cheerful Uncle Jim hugs, warm Aunt Judy hugs, Grandpa hugs that smell just like Grandpa should. Every person here loving me, smothering me in their warm, true love.
Finally we all sit down to our meal, two tables to fit everyone. And Grandpa sits at the head of the table, says a prayer, watches all of his children and grandchildren with his eyes sparkling, almost in tears any time his whole family is gathered close. Grandpa has so much tender love in his face every Thanksgiving.
And sitting there eating with my family, everything feels warm, inside and out. It’s safe, it’s secure. Everything embraces me: familiar faces, familiar smells, everything is just as it should be, and I can be just who I am.
Grandma’s food is pretty much perfect in every way. The smell of slow-cooked deliciousness fresh from the kitchen comes to the table to fill the whole house; every bite filled with just enough moistness, savory seasoning, tartness, textures that melt in the mouth. Grandma’s love is in this food, all cooked carefully, expertly, with a lifetime of practice. It’s delicious, Grandma, it’s amazing.
I’m enveloped in laughter, conversation, joking and teasing. I don’t have to participate in it; I can just drink it all in, be taken in by the joy of being with family. I can bathe in the comfort of the sounds and sights and smells. My role is listening, smiling, watching, wishing it would continue forever.
