It’s strange, I don’t remember Thanksgiving much as a family and I’m not sure why. I wasn’t a food-motivated child until grief and separation made me reach for comfort. I don’t think of holidays in terms of sitting around the table and considering what was on my plate. What privilege, I know.

I think of them in terms of soft white tights and patent-leather shoes. Miracle on 34th Street playing, my mom’s beautiful golden-red hair and whatever outfit she had on. The Thanksgiving Day Parade and the flushed and cold faces of the people singing. My dad and my uncle and my grandfather and football.

I associate holidays with my grandparents’ Music Room. A tan and beige swirling fuzzy rug. The piano. My Grandmom Ag putting The Nutcracker on the record player only to sit back and clap as she watched us dance. I believe I was the most restless of us, twirling and twirling and running around, convinced I performed the Trepak so expertly that surely I would be auditioning someday.

I’d withdraw underneath the table, as many of us do. Staring at the shoes of my loved ones or the carved legs of the great wooden table. I’d grow simultaneously dreamlike and melancholy and all too hung up on the magic of a day that is temporary. Which is why, I suppose, Judy Garland’s “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” never fails to destroy me. She is the only person who sings it the way it is meant to be sung.

It was always “If the fates allow” that screwed me up. Thank you, fates.

I am not a food-motivated adult. Not even where grief is concerned. I don’t think of Thanksgiving in terms of what will be on my plate. What privilege, I know.

I think instead of the preparing of the meals. Tying an apron around my waist. Being with my loved ones. Laughter and remembering.

I don’t get a dance break anymore, but I find ways to incorporate one still. In the hallway of my office building, when I don’t hear a soul, I’ll do my silly pirouettes.

I can’t withdraw under the table, but I still grow simultaneously dreamlike and melancholy.

I wash it away with bubbles that spread in my interior like stars.

^{_{(Daily Writing 110)}}