Rockwell Microcosm

            Normally, my family didn’t spend that final week of November alone. While we didn’t live near grandparents or cousins, there was always a visiting relative, or a close family friend, or well timed trip to California for the holidays. But friends had moved away, or made other plans, and we’d decided to stay home that year. So as we gathered around the table, it was just the four of us.

            Just my father, blessing the food and beginning to pass around the larger dishes. He’d printed out a recipe from the Internet that was in some way interesting to us – using an unusual ingredient, or popular in another country for their Thanksgiving. It may or may not have tasted good. It didn’t matter. We were interested in the tidbit of information, the story that went along with the dish.

            Just my mother, who got up at 8 o’clock that morning, saying she was going to watch the Macy’s Parade, but really just getting a head start on cooking. Our menu had no order, no theme. It was simply everything we loved, scribbled on a piece of paper taped to the fridge whenever we remembered. Just my mother, pulling out mismatched potholders and squeezing just one more dish onto the kitchen table. The leftovers would last for weeks.

            Just my brother, who emerged from his book to stand in the kitchen and try to help. Or to listen to my chatter with only minimal jabs about its constancy. (Minimal jabs are acceptable when you’re an older brother.) Just my brother, complimenting everything he eats during the meal – and then thanking our mother several times at the end of the meal before returning to his books, his projects. He always tried to do the right thing.

            Just me, so excited about the meal that I spend the first half of the week planning what I’m going to contribute to it. So excited about contributing that I make my one dish a good hour before we actually plan to serve the meal. So caught up in my excitement, in fact, that I leave the dish on the back counter and forget about it until we’ve finished eating. Too excited to care, I’d spend the rest of the afternoon convincing everyone to try it, even though we’d eaten until we couldn’t eat anymore.

            Just my family, getting one chance to spend together before responsibility takes over again. Just the jokes that don’t have to be explained, the traditions that make sense to no one else, the rituals carved into existence by years of repetition rather than any sort of reasoning. Just a love that can’t be defined, or even explained, but can be glimpsed in the story, in the excitement, in the kindness, in the meal. Just Thanksgiving.