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.