Thanksgiving

This was always a special day for me and Jonah. Preparations would start days in advance. We would plan who was cooking what, we would go grocery shopping together, and the night before we would begin prepping our stuffing, making chex mix, and dialing into our joyous pregame energy. We just loved it all. The next morning we would be up early, tuck the turkey into the oven and savor one of our favorite rituals - the parade. Just me and him, jammies, coffee, blankets, and Al Roker. We would laugh and crack jokes and reminisce over memories from our time living near NYC when he was little. We would always take him to see the Radio City Music Hall Christmas Spectacular just after Thanksgiving and the first time we took him as a little boy, he was convinced the Rockettes I had described were really the Rockheads, and was disappointed when they didn’t *quite* live up to his 3 year old imagination. Every year we would chuckle as we watched them dance for us on TV. 

After a walk and showers, our family would then head over to my Mom and Dad’s house for the main event, all our offerings in hand. Food, football, Scrabble, movies, video games, food. 

Some years, if my folks were out of town, we would change it up. The four of us would head up to the cabin for a cozy holiday. He and I would cook the whole thing and all of us would lounge around all day, laughing, eating yummy things, and watching movies. Just easy, relaxed, comfy, and bursting with love. Those Thanksgivings were truly ours. Jonah and Momma time, and we both reveled in them. 

For me, Thanksgiving has Jonah’s fingerprints all over it. Since he died, I have been dreading these holidays. I think I could imagine floating through endless summer days without him, easy and slow, but these days are like chasms in the calendar. You can see the edge drawing near, and you literally have no idea how far the drop will be. Everyone else seems to be experiencing heightened joy and family time, and you are lying in the bottom of a ravine, broken. 

I will admit being tempted by the thought of skipping it altogether. Why add weight to the load we already carry? But I suspect it’s like strength training, or physical therapy. We have to lean in a bit, even when it’s painful. Not to the point of injury, but enough so that you test your limits, build muscle and wisdom. People have told me this grief never goes away, you just grow around it and learn to carry it better. Days like this may be grueling, but I think this is how we get strong enough to hold both grief and great joy together. If I deny my grief, joy might feel thin, desperate, avoidant. Like plugging my ears to something terrible and trying to laugh loudly to cover the sound. If I don’t learn how to carry the grief, it will consume all light and love and optimism and cover me like a shroud. Neither of these will do. I choose door number 3. Laugh and ache, cook and cry, and feel full and empty at the same time. A beautiful, completely awful day. 

So, we are going to my parent’s house and doing the thing. 

We are sitting around the table. We are returning to the traditions, tenderly, carefully. We have to find out what doesn’t feel good anymore and what feels vital. After we do that, we can decide how to remix our landmark moments each year, carrying with us the stuff that really matters and letting other things go. 

And although we are doing the thing, we made some changes so it feels more doable. It still has to feel fresh somehow, otherwise Jonah’s absence would engulf everything. So, we made the table bigger. We added new chairs. Neighbors. Family that doesn't typically come. More is good. Instead of suffocating and insular, we flung open the door and windows and let our gratitude extend to broader hospitality and welcoming new people. We also set boundaries for ourselves. Bring multiple cars so if anyone needs to tap out, they have means of escape. When we are done, we are done. No expectation to linger or hang out any longer than we feel up to. We all talked about this plan together ahead of time so we all know where the boundaries are. Stretch, but don’t injure. 

I think it will be okay. 

The thing is, I know he is right here. He is literally beside me now. I know it. He wouldn’t miss today for anything. He will be at the table. He will be laughing, smiling, and loving his people. He will be proud of us. I know he already is. 

But it will never be what it was, and that is almost impossible for me right now. At least today.

God,

Grant me the courage and resilience to look ahead to the new with as much joy as I felt in the past, with my boy beside me. These days. These horrible, wonderful days of commemoration and celebration. Every one of them is now a cure and a wound. Restful and exhausting at the same time. Every second of today will be laced with memory and absence, and somehow, in between those thick visions I will try and be present today. To care for my family, to notice what is right in front of me today, for which I am truly grateful. In this now paradoxical day of abundance and emptiness, please stay close. 

And thank you for letting me be Jonah’s mom. 

Amen.