Thanks-for-giving

“Thanks a lot”,  as I quickly push forward the platter of slippery-squirrel pot pie. It's a family tradition and, of course, Auntie K had to force seconds and thirds down our throats. I massage my temples - and then - search for my cigarettes. I can hear dad smacking - he has the ability to chew with half his mouth open - without letting any food tumble from it - a real “Ripley’s believe it or not” talent. Popping a dart into my mouth, I slowly ease away from the table. “Must have eaten half my body weight” I quietly mutter. Our eyes lock - and as she beams me a disapproving look. Mothers are known to do such things, but this look holds special disapproval. A few days ago, she sat next to me at breakfast.

“Can I ask you a question”

“Ya sure”

“Do you smoke?”

Was knocked off-kilter by this line of interrogation, but as I choked down another bite, I said “yes, I do.”

I mean it took her - 10 years - to notice or even to ask so let’s not slap her name on any Sherlock Holmes investigation award too fast. But we both had a hearty laugh when her follow-up question was “is it because cigarettes are such a good form of diet suppression.”

At least I’m not hiding it anymore or rinsing myself with Lysol on days like this. She is and always has been, rather irked, by anyone leaving the dinner table, before dessert, and even more, if that reason is to go suck on a devil stick. I mosey on towards the door and steal a nibble of turkey and two green peas from my niece’s plate before hearing “let’s play basketball later” as the door shuts.

I hear a stifled cough, where is he? I find my brother huddled behind the garage, smoking a joint and blowing the smoke through a toilet paper roll with a few dryer sheets stuffed inside. His face is ash-white besides some hints of redness around his cheekbones. “I want a drag!” His face relaxes and the color returns. “It’s only you”. We both lean against the garage wall. The silence swoons in around us, as our bodies try to digest the mountain of food we consumed. After a few minutes, I can feel the tension building. I start blabbing.

“Hey man, I'm really sorry, I didn't come to your wedding, I mean it's a really shit thing to do, considering I was the best man and all. But it just didn’t work and was basically stuck in Berlin, trying to figure out life there, and with my visa application, that old girlfriend, I just couldn't make it. And not to mention it would have cost two thousand at least. I ain’t working the oil fields - no more - and I've just not got that kinda money.” He doesn't look up - nor respond. The silence hurts. “Come on man - at least say something - I totally understand if you're still angry about it or want to yell at me or something.” He holds his hand out for the joint. And I take another hit and blow through the toilet paper tube. The dryer sheets have already started to yellow - and I - pass both over to him. He quickly sucks on the end and peers around - like a perched cat - before shoving both into his jacket pocket. I hear the crunch of leaves and quickly light my cigarette. And blow out a puff of relaxation.

“Oh, it's only you” as my sister appears.

She looks at me, then the cigarette, then at me again.

“That’s gross” - she emits with that tonality of superiority only an older sister can muster. My brother points at her ears - with a wide grin - across his face. “Do those satellite dishes get any good reception?” We both cackle a bit. Her eyes roll “you too are just a couple of meanies.” If one heard this conversation and only the audio version - they would think - we were between the ages of six and ten.

But contrary to what any of us would care to admit, we are all north of thirty. My sister quivering on the edge of 40 and my degenerate brother at 35 and me rounding out the bottom at 30. Siblings create certain dynamics and the older we get makes no difference our relationships always seem to stay “dynamic”. I wonder why growing up in the same household - means what it means - and has the lasting effect of always wanting to terrorize each other.

I had missed these family gatherings - I was living abroad trying to “find myself” for the past five years. And had only made it home once for twenty days during that time. But my immigrant journey has taken a break or better yet, a pause - and with Europe, in the midst of lockdown #5, it didn't make much sense to stick around there any longer. The city I once loved had grown cold, and in my heart, it became apparent that it was time to move on. And I figured that spending some time, in familiar surroundings, would do me some good. Hopefully, I know enough people in Texas, to find some job - and live in the city of Austin, for a time. But plans always seem to change, and the experience of life rarely sticks to those bullet points you scribbled on a sticky note and pinned to your wall.

We are supposed to be thankful on this day of thanksgiving and yes part of that story is about the European expansion, and the cholera, and the land grabbing, the cheating, and the stealin’, and sharing, and caring, and the universal language of food. It’s all part of this day. But I figure, well, but practicing being thankful, never hurt anybody. In my few years, I’ve had some cheerful holidays and others that were rough. I reckon for something to be beautiful, there has to be a certain cost involved or so it would seem. And even though my family, at times, makes me want to splatter my brains on the concrete, when any “big topics” such as religion, dreams, politics, philosophy, hell even at times, movies, can end in a nasty quarrel. But deep down, they love me, and I them, even though, we express it in peculiar and unique ways.

As we walk back to the house I laugh and say “Peace and Tranquility do not seem to be in our DNA. Huh, I lost 10k on an eco-hostel investment in Guatemala. I tried to sell some drugs in Mexico, barely broke even. Failed at being an artist in Berlin. And to boot, I grew up with all of you.” My sister grumbles “I never did any stupid shit like that, I’ve got 500k in my retirement and I’m not even 40.” We all three smile and laugh while pulling three beers out of the outdoor fridge. But I don't pretend to understand the way other people think. I only know how I think. And even at times, that remains a great mystery to me. But I am thankful on this day of thanksgiving. Even with all the strangeness that comes with being home, that smoked turkey, crumbly stuffing, buttery mashed potatoes, sugary baked ham, and slippery-squirrel pot pie still taste amazing.