It’s been a while, so long that the whole format in here is changed. I’d blame the election or the pandemic or both, but the truth is, I’ve had nothing much to say, at least, in this space. Today, I do.
Thanksgiving was strange for everyone, this year. If you stayed within the guidelines of the CDC, you were probably as alone as Frankie D and I were. If you didn’t, if you gathered with family despite this plague, it was still different, because there were those guideline followers missing. In the back of your brain, you worried or you scoffed. Either way, it was different.
For me, Thanksgiving was kind of awesome. I love the huge, family gathering at my brother’s house, my parents, all the nieces and nephews, my sibs, my kids, all the spouses. It’s always chaotic but absolutely wonderful. And it makes me sad.
These family gatherings always put a huge spotlight on the fact that one is missing, and always will be. I see my kids gathered and, yup, one missing. I see my nieces and nephews goofing around and, yup, one missing. There are absences every year–who can’t make it, for whatever reason. But they’ll be there next gathering, next holiday. Next. The potential is there, even if they never show up. Except for the one.
This Thanksgiving, it was just me and Frankie D sitting at our table, eating our feast. No karaoke. No games. No noise. Just us, eating, watching dumb Christmas movies, playing Mexican Train. And not once did I look up from whatever we were doing and get slammed in the gut with, “One is missing.” Everyone was missing this year. My heart stayed in one piece, on a day that typically, silently shatters it. It feels strange to say, but it was nice, for a change.