Missing You

A year ago I wrote about Thanksgiving (Giving Thanks)--how it has always been my favorite holiday, how the traditions and the family and the food and the memories all wind together like a big pumpkin-colored ribbon, melding into one giant memory of food and smells and laughter and tears.  I talked about how different our Thanksgiving was in 2018, but we still celebrated it, giving thanks for the decades of memories and laughter we had experienced with family, but realizing that it would, more than likely, be the last Thanksgiving Day we would break bread with my parents.  I was right.  Ten days later, you died at home, and six months after that, your wife went to join you.  So for me, this is the first Thanksgiving in 64 years that I have not spent with, eaten with, or at least talked and laughed with, you, my dad. And I miss you.  So much that the food I just ate just sits in my stomach like a giant rock. 

As I watched the preparations and the kids' craft session, and smelled the turkey and the stuffing and the pies all baking, as family and friends arrived and filled the kitchen and the house with laughter and joy and stories, as the wine flowed and the gravy was passed, as the dishes were dirtied and washed and dirtied and washed again, I heard your laughter, saw your face, felt your hand on my shoulder as you said, "Damn it, Barb, I love you."  And I missed you, so much it was palpable, and the tears would just start to flow and I would have to run to another room or go outside just to get away and not have to talk about it.   Ben cooked up the gizzards the way you like them, but they just sat in a bowl on the counter because you aren't here to jokingly fight over who is going to get the bigger piece. I ate one, but it wasn't the same. We had turkey and stuffing and sweet potatoes and mashed potatoes, cranberries and rolls and green bean casserole, and the pie is still to come, but without your raucous laughter and comments about how this turkey was the best ever,  how no one knows how to slice turkey right except you, it wasn't the same. David is wearing your 90th birthday T-shirt from five years ago, and I spoke to Uncle Rob a few minutes ago, but I kept feeling like I was forgetting something, that there was a crucial part I was missing.   

You, Dad.  

I miss you.

Yes, I am thankful.  Yes I am blessed with so many countless blessings and riches.  I revel in the joy and love of my daughters and their husbands, my brother and my husband, my grandchildren near and far.  We have so much, so much more than I will ever deserve.  But I will always, always, miss you on this day more than any other time of year.

For you, above all, taught me the importance of family and love and memories made together.

And for that I am thankful.

Happy Thanksgiving, Dad.