November. The season looms. Can’t ignore it now. What to do? So many things. I want to gather all my children together. Bring them all home. With grandkids too. We’ll all be safe and warm together again. Too early to get the turkey. Frozen or fresh? Wen can choose.
Remember the year Gock did the deep-fry thing.
The year Buddy almost got the turkey.
The year Wendall hid only one egg—no wait, wrong holiday.
Memories are interesting things. Layers and layers of them. Chopping celery, onions, making cornbread for the dressing. Voices in the other rooms. Laughing.TV. Football? Contentment.
The year we sent one of the kids to Langdon’s to ask if they had Alka-Seltzer.
The year the Hesses were with us, minus Laverne.
The year of the Wiktorskis. Tom liked his butter cold out of the frig. Sandy ate turkey sandwiches with butter on white bread.
Did we ever do Hagerstown for Thanksgiving? Don't think so.
The year I invited a freshly divorced woman from church that I thought Wendall had eyes for. I was grateful when she declined.
The years we went to the “Smith’s” house in Georgia. Was that the name? Family style meal. All the fixins.
The year of the apartment at 14th & Delaware. Linda W., M&Ms
All those years in Georgia.
What ya gonna do? Life moves on.
Two thousand twenty-five feels a long way off.
Voices in the hall. Pause. Joyce, Robeena, Myrna.
Go out to see Joyce. Haven’t seen her since I’ve been inside. Regina is in Joyce's apartment. The elevator’s out again, so Regina can’t go home.
Myrna, of Myrna and Mighty Mike aka the “Trolls”, is talking a mile a minute. ‘Mike bad, Myrna knee surgery. Et friggin c’. Robeena listens, sympathetically. Joyce and I wink at each other and I go home. Nice to be able to do that.
No comments:
Post a Comment