Another First Thanksgiving

I opened the closet door to find the stack of paper. All the colors of the construction paper; black, green, yellow, brown, orange, red, blue stacked in its dull rainbow.  In a small box were glue, glitter, ribbons, and scissors right where she left them. The day was a drab as the construction paper, gray and overcast with rain. Wet leaves sticking to the walkway, the dog came in from his venture in the rain only to shake the water everywhere.  I called his name; he looked at me as if asking if he had done something wrong. 

I don’t really know why I am doing this, it is rather silly. The truth is I wanted something normal, something in the rhythm of life that was ordinary in the wake of her death. I didn’t know you could miss someone as bad as I missed my mom. I was still mad at Lynn Stanly, just thinking about it made me angry. She had said, “I thought you would be past all this crying and being upset as much faith as you have.” It had only been six months and I was already a heap of emotions. She had to trot that out like there was a time limit on grieving. I paused in my response and said only, “She is worthy of my grief and grieving.” I then turned and walked away. 

Mother so loved to make her decorations for Thanksgiving. It always looked like a school classroom with the orange, brown, black, and yellow paper cut into leaves, pumpkins, pilgrim hats, and turkeys. I opened the package of the construction paper and sat down with a cup of tea spreading the paper out and looking at the colors. As I separated out some of the papers, there on a yellow sheet was a shopping list she had started. “Butter, eggs, milk, whipped cream, small ham, olives.” I guess she had started over on a new list when this one was packed away after the decorations were finished. My fingers outlined the letters on the soft paper, I looked to see if the ink came off, it did not. I thought of the countless times she had stood at the stove to cook and shine as she recreated the meals of our youth for us. I don’t know what it was about this time of year, but it seemed to be the best holiday.   

I looked at the papers. Picking out an orange sheet, I folded it and cut out a rather odd-shaped circle. I thought, “Well, with a little work, this will make a fine pumpkin.” I got out the markers and set out to bring this pumpkin to life. Next was a pilgrim hat, black with a tan band across it to give it some depth. I then attempted a leaf, it was supposed to be like a maple leaf, but we didn’t have maple trees here, so I when with a strange kind of oak leaf, maybe it was poison oak when I was finished, I don’t know. Glancing over to the end table, there was a picture of mom and dad. She with that smile that was always so genuine. Pop was looking at her in the picture. His love, his life. After pop died, I didn’t know what she would do. It was months of grief for her. He had been all she knew for fifty years of marriage. Now she was gone. And I have to make these damn decorations for that dinner that no one wants to bother with. But if we don’t make these silly things, and make that endless chain of construction paper, it will be like death has won. And as I have known and believed, her life has not ended but changed. So this inevitable part of her life is part of the ongoing struggle in the wake of her death. As I sat there, I recalled the countless times she would sit at this very table, drinking her coffee, crossword puzzle in hand, always in ink, she was so proud of that, and a cigarette with the smoke making its signals from the ashtray.

I was lost in those moments of thought. Tears weld up and I wiped my eyes. I took out some more of the paper and traced a turkey out as best I could, and began to cut. Snip, snip, and long cut around the shape. I paused and looked at it.  It looked more like a damn octopus than a turkey! I laughed at it and then began to weep. Deep sobs arose out of the depth of my broken heart. I, at last, got up and washed my face, told myself how silly I was as I looked in the bathroom mirror. There I saw my dad looking back at me, a younger face than his, but his all the same. Mom always said I looked just like my dad, followed with a smirk and a half-whisper “Whoever he was…”

Just then the phone rang. It was my sister. She said “Helloooo brother.” In her chirpy way. “What ya doing?” I sighed and said that I had been working on some decorations for the dinner. She caught the masked strain in my voice and asked “Tough day?” I lied and said “No, it’s fine. Had a moment of inconceivable rage, cried hysterically--but got past it.” She chuckled, said she knew the feeling. We talked about the meal again, the setup, and the time. I suggested a later meal, so I could go to Church that morning, there was to be a Thanksgiving Eucharist at St. Luke’s at 9:00, I asked if she wanted to go. She said no, too much to get ready for on that day. I agreed and we set the time for 1:00 PM. 

I thought about just scrapping the whole thing with these decorations. I mean really. Who cares? ‘It’s about the food’ I thought to myself. I was just about to crumple up the ‘octo-turkey’ and caught myself. She would have made so much fun of this, it would have been a big joke and she would have insisted it be put someplace prominent so she could try to explain it to everyone. I put it aside and started cutting the paper strips to make a paper chain; that I could do without the need for creativity. 

It was getting dark. Thanksgiving was in five days. In my self-pity, I thought about the fact that here I was an ‘orphan.’ Some orphan… well established, good family and good family name. But when your parents die, that is what you are. I also thought of the man I had become because of my parents. They expected the better of us all, but as I was the eldest, maybe there was more I had to do for the ones to follow. I stepped out on the porch, the rain hitting the leaves and roof performing the ancient chant of praise to the Creator. I thought of what it means to give thanks and be thankful. I laughed at the times we were our best as a family. Like the time when the lights went out in a storm and we played games and ate popcorn by candlelight. I was so sad when the lights flickered back on and we went back to our rooms and left each other alone. Now, Mom’s death was like that, the lights going out. This would be the first time we would gather without her. I wanted it to be like that stormy night, with the distractions of our lives placed in the dark corners so we could be ourselves, to laugh and joke without the diversions of life getting in the way. I stepped back to the table with the scraps and looked at the paper chain I had started. A chain. Unbroken like the generations before us, each passing along their life to each of us. I took it and decided to add at least a dozen more links…