The house is still, except for the click and tumble in the dryer, a load of towels and one sweatshirt whose zipper is clanking lightly against the drum. It’s a comforting sound.
My hands are cold — of course, it is November. And December, in another week. Thanksgiving Day is tomorrow, and the house is empty. My girls have gone to their dad’s and P’s kids have gone to visit their mother, and Mia is not home for the holiday, since we just saw her off a month ago and she’ll be home Dec. 16 for Christmas. She is planning to sit on the curb tomorrow and watch the Macy’s Parade in Manhattan, and then catch the Chinatown Express (a bus from NY to Philly’s Chinatown) to dine with my brother’s in-laws in Cherry Hill, NJ. P and I are not planning on a turkey dinner — we are still debating what to do — jump in the car and drive north to visit a friend, hit the road to Tahoe for a few days, stay here under the radar, catch a plane to Vegas…it’s all up in the air. I think we’ll roll dice to see where we’re going.
In any case, no turkey.
Which is fine — no need to cook a whole bird for just the two of us. I might buy one to cook later, though, in a week or so. I do miss the scent of the browning skin, the gravy, cranberry sauce, pumpkin pie. I bought a cracked crab and fresh bread, and ingredients to make the pie if we do choose to stay. A light supper for two, with pumpkin pie, might be nice.
But whatever — as long as we’re together, we don’t feel the pinch of missing the kids quite as much. Being with someone who shares custody of his children is a blessing in many ways. At least you’re in the same boat, and you understand the weird ways of it.
My office is a mess, but I promised Ana she could clean it for some holiday spending money. Christmas will be homemade this year, as the budget is still tight. So, all of you expecting gifts, um, hope you like cookies…and knitting…and the like. I’m cranking up the Christmas craft (not crap) factory, and expect the kids to be joining in the crew.
Tomorrow is Thanksgiving, just one day of the year where we are meant to be thankful, but I’m trying to be thankful every day, even when I really don’t feel like it…
I forgot to write about books. My mother gave me a box of books that were my grandmother’s, and I have just barely touched them, opened a few and read the inscriptions — and they are lovely, awe-inspiring. There is so much to discover in this little trove: poetry inscribed by my grandfather for Valentine’s Day before they were married. A book of speeches and letters and essays by such stalwarts as Longfellow, George Washington and Ben Franklin, and stories by Poe and Irving. True American classics. I want to savor the reading of these and try to read them with the eyes of a girl in 1917. Not possible, but maybe. We’ll see.
Be grateful. Praise Jah. Enjoy your days. Amen.