Yesterday was our first holiday without my dad. I can’t say that Thanksgiving was my dad’s favorite. For the most part Thanksgiving was spent with my mom’s family. Imagine as many conversations as there are people, all happening simultaneously. Loudly. In multiple languages. My dad would hang out on the fringes, drinking his coffee and reading or chatting quietly with my uncle. My mom and I would pass by and check on him, make a snarky comment or three, and then dive back into the commotion. He would join us for the meal, which he always told my grandmother was perfectly prepared.
My favorite childhood Thanksgiving memory was when we stayed home, the three of us, and I woke up early to the sound and smell of my dad getting the turkey ready. That’s what I kept remembering that yesterday. It’s what I’ll remember next year, and the year after that.
One down. Way too many to go.
I have an appointment to get my haircut in an hour, my house is dark and I’m eating last night’s leftovers for lunch, AND I already know what I’m going to make for tonight’s dinner, so take that (are vegetables REALLY necessary?), and lately I’ve been walking around with a permanently clenched jaw because my dad was denied the heart pump because his aorta’s too crunchy (actual medical term) and so it’s just a matter of maximizing the efficacy of his meds (does anyone else love the word efficacy?), BUT he’s walking almost on his own now and totally eating and pissing off my mom so I think he’s feeling better; I still have a sore throat and have decided that this cold and I are done, finito, and can I have a vacation now?
That was the longest sentence I’ve ever written. If I’d known that’s how it was going to go, I would have alerted Guinness.
Happy Birthday to the best six-year-old girl around.