On Giving Thanks
I was in the 7th grade and it was the Monday after Thanksgiving. I don’t recall which period it was, but I was called to the office to go home. Excited, I gathered everything I owned and sprinted to the office. There, in the office, stood my father in his Naval uniform, stoic. My pace slowed and the excitement retreated from my expression and I became a question. I knew something was wrong, but what it was, was lost on me. Slowly, I entered the office and he barely looked at me. Tense, like he was just trying to hold it all together. My heart wasn’t sure if it should stampede or not. Leaving the school, I followed through the office door, hallway and exit. To the car, his walk was determined and deliberate. There, the silence was only broken by the engine starting. I had never known my father to be this quiet; had never known him not to make eye contact. The ride home was a conundrum. My eyes, back and forth between my father and passenger window; my hands consoling one another, and my heart was a slow lonely metronome.
Home was only about 10 minutes away, but the car ride felt like a lifetime. The garage door opened, he pulled in the same as always and we shuffled everything into the house. I went straight to my room and sat on my bed; sensing it was the only place I could be. A few moments passed, and my father came to my room, leaned on my dresser and uttered, “My mom died”. The words slowly fell out of his mouth like he was trying to catch him before they came out. I had never seen my father cry. I crumbled like a sand castle does when the tide rises. We cried there, in my room, we hugged, and allowed the sadness to wash over us. Thinking of that moment is still one of the only things that brings me to tears.
I had just spent Thanksgiving with my Grandma Daisy and now she was gone. I thought, “I just saw her yesterday.” I was trying to make sense of life and death. I had never thought of life as so temporary. My Grandmother was a giant to me! I didn’t know death could come without warning. It was my first experience with loss.
I don’t remember if it was during the funeral or after, but a decision was made, from now on, we would all get together for Thanksgiving. It was going to be how we all stay connected and how we pay homage to the matriarch of our family.
For the last 28 years, we have kept that promise to spend every Thanksgiving together. We have gathered in remembrance to break bread, share stories, and celebrate. My grandmother has 7 sons, unfortunately two have passed, 11 grandchildren, and 2 great grandchildren. There are spouses, cousins, and extended family who have joined our tradition. We have traveled to 9 states. We have rented massive homes and also crammed ourselves in rentals that could barely hold us. We are determined to be together.
For me, Thanksgiving is about family; it is about my Grandma Daisy and the mark she has left on all of us. It is about tradition and ensuring her name and legacy live on through generations. It is about gratitude, togetherness, and appreciation. Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday, not because of its origins, but because of what it means to me and my family.