I’ve been wanting to write a post-Thanksgiving post for a week now and finally, seven days later, I have the chance.
At Thanksgiving dinner, I sat down next to my grandmother and I said, “Grandma, this is your ninety-fourth Thanksgiving. Tell me: Out of all 94 years, what sticks out as your happiest holiday? What is your favorite Thanksgiving memory?”
I sat back and smiled thoughtfully. Her white-gray tendrils curled around her glasses. She was sharp as a whip, God bless her. Three marriages and four boyfriends later, she was still a looker.
She thought and she thought. I waited patiently. She thought some more.
I imagined she was mentally sorting through years of warm holiday memories. That could take a while, right? Sifting through 94 years of Thanksgivings?
Heck, she'd spent 36 Thanksgivings with me. Maybe one of those had been her favorite. Maybe she'd regale me with a holiday memory I didn't even remember. Maybe I'd done something endearing, like—
—“I don’t have one,” she said.
“You don't have one favorite happy holiday memory?” I asked.
“Nope. None of them were very happy.”
She shrugged and took a bite of pie.
I shouldn't have been surprised. Just a few months ago she had handed me a pile of letters and cards I’d sent her as a kid and said, “Here, I found some of the junk you sent me and since I’m not going to be around much longer you can have it back."
I swear, when she finally kicks it and is laid to rest the grass is going to curdle and spit her back out.
(Seriously, if you ship me your sweet grandmother for Christmas I'll kick in a cashmere sweater. And some sappy cards signed by yours truly. Sappy, thoughtful, homemade cards. *Sniff, sniff*)