I’ve always liked Thanksgiving. Not because of the break that it has always afforded me from the burdens of school (or the fact that it’s a day I don’t actually have to work this year), but because it’s a day where time stops in its tracks and allows peace its moment to shine.
Thanksgiving was always a quiet affair at our house, usually consisting of my parents, my brother, and me. Even though there were only four of us eating, my mother spent all day in the kitchen, beginning long before my eyes fluttered open. I’d wake up to the smells of turkey roasting in the oven, yeast rolls rising on the counter, and chocolate pudding cooking on the stove. Pots and pans would clash together as my mother fished them from the cabinets, glass lids would clink as they were carefully placed onto ceramic baking dishes, and peelings of potato skin would plop onto the countertop as they fell prey to the whir of the vegetable peeler. From the moment I stepped out of my bedroom, I was enveloped by the smells and sounds that ushered in our family tradition.
By the time dinner got underway, the table in the formal dining room was usually buried under plates of food – more food than one family could eat. There were always extras of certain items according to what each person liked the best: raw black olives and jellied cranberry sauce for me, heaps of mashed potatoes for Chandler, strawberry jello salad for my father, and bright orange sweet potatoes topped with melted marshmallows for my mother. Our bellies would fill more quickly than our heaping plates, and conversation was light, friendly, and familiar – the sound of a family with shared memories gathered around the table in love and thanksgiving. Dessert was no different, with its homemade pies and freshly whipped cream. Banana cream, or sometimes lemon merengue for my father, homemade pumpkin for my mother, chocolate pudding pie for me, and little ceramic ramekins full of homemade chocolate pudding for my brother – each with their own special dessert. Chandler loved the chocolate pudding so much he would very nearly lick the ramekin in an effort to enjoy every last bite. The holiday was something every family holiday should be: comfortable, rich, satisfying, and shot through with ribbons of love.
When the meal was at last put away neatly onto the shelves of the refrigerator, we’d all waddle into the family room, our stomachs close to exploding, to watch whatever holiday special or movie happened to be on television. Mom and Dad would lounge in the recliners, I’d throw myself onto the sofa, and Chandler would wrap himself up in Mom’s crocheted afghan, roll onto his stomach, and stretch out on the floor in front of my feet. We’d laugh and chatter and when night had fallen and the TV specials had run their course, my parents would rise from their recliners. My father would envelop us in big bear hugs and my mother would lovingly tousle our hair and kiss our cheeks and just like that, the day was done.
At some point during the night, Chandler would creep up the stairs from his basement bedroom to rummage around for leftovers in the fridge. We’d wake in the morning to emptied pudding pots and dirtied dishes, evidence of his midnight forage through the feast. We’d laugh and joke about it in the morning, about how much food he could hide away in his stomach and he’d always smile sheepishly while begging Mom to make just one more batch of mashed potatoes because he’d already eaten the dinner leftovers.
But things will be different this year.
This year, there will be no ecru mounds of mashed potatoes dripping golden butter into the serving dish. There will be no pots of rich, homemade chocolate pudding with festive dabs of freshly whipped cream waiting patiently for a spoon. The glass lids covering up the refrigerated leavings of the holiday feast will not be lifted at midnight with my brother standing poised over them with a fork, shoveling down the dinner remains as though he is afraid they will spoil before dawn. Oh, things will be so different!
I am staying in Vermont for the holiday; Chris and I will be driving down some small, two lane road to enjoy dinner at the home of one of his aunts. My mother and father will drive north to Montana to spend the holiday with my father’s family. The dining room table in my childhood home will stand empty this year and one chair in particular will remain empty no matter how many future dinners are served. I will desperately miss waking up in the twin bed of my youth to the scents of my mother’s kitchen. I will miss the dining room table piled high with favorite foods. I will miss gathering in the family room with my parents and brother, the love and laughter resplendent through the air. I will miss so very much my family, with its comfort and security and warmth. There are so many acute losses this year, each with its own sting of pain. But one loss sticks out the most:
This year there will be no more Chandler.
And that is the worst loss of them all.
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