It has certainly been a different kind of holiday this year. I mean, there’s Covid – that despicable virus that has turned our entire world upside down. There’s the crazy and incomparable Presidential election – still being fought over -causing a divisiveness that hurts my soul. There’s a sense of disconnect, and fear, and mistrust that pervades every aspect of life, or so it seems. Oh, and did I mention Covid?

I woke up feeling pretty good today. It was a relief not to have to plan a big dinner. There was no pressure to speak of. I spent the day, puttering around, and pretending it would be OK to have this holiday be one of quietude and serenity. And that felt right for most of the day. But as I sit here after dinner, contemplating the day, I find a well of sadness has filled my heart.

As I write, a small, rounded juice glass, which I took from my parents’ house when we sold it, holds a shot of Jameson, “soothing my tummy, dontcha know,” as my father used to say. I want to share my thoughts, if just for posterity. Or, just to have something to look back on if ever I want to remember Thanksgiving 2020.

This year, so different from any other Thanksgiving in my entire life, has left me in turmoil. This is the 4^th Thanksgiving since my parents passed. And until this year, I had been able to get through this holiday relatively unscathed. Doug and Kyle and I started a new tradition of going down to Charlotte to have Thanksgiving with Mikaela. The previous three years showed us that making a new tradition can be a really good thing. Going away helped me deal with my parents being gone and gave us time to see Mikaela and spend time in our own little family unit.

But this year, because of Covid, we didn’t go down South. Kyle and his girlfriend decided to spend the day with her family. Mikaela was in Charlotte, and Doug and I stayed home. So, without my really knowing why, I became anxious and angry and upset, as the day wore on. I finally figured out it was because there was no way to get away from the grief this year. And when I finally acknowledged that empty feeling, that which made my heart stop and my throat close with unshed tears when the memories of love and family filled my heart, I was so filled with grief that I couldn’t see the blessings anymore. I just wanted to go to bed and pull the covers over my head and cry.

Instead, I made dinner. For two. Turkey, you might ask? All the fixings? Well, actually, no. I made chicken parm and by the time it was done, I didn’t have the emotional gumption to even make angel hair pasta to go with it. So, our Thanksgiving dinner was chicken parm and scali bread. Seriously. No vegetables. No mashed potatoes. No gravy. Just chicken parm. And scali bread.

We sat at the table, and took it all in. Neither of us had much to say, except to agree it was the strangest feeling ever. No kids. No extended family. Just the two of us. It was so freaking quiet. It was like we didn’t know how to express the weirdness of it all. I started to feel like I had failed someone.  No matter how many times I told myself it made no sense to make a big dinner for just me and Doug there was a niggling little voice scolding me. But why, I kept asking myself.

And then it hit me. I had tried to avoid the grief all day as it came creeping in, thinking I should just embrace the blessings and not give in to the sadness. But then I remembered something I read recently. Grief is the measure of how much one has loved. And I realized, that to feel this grief, and hold it close, was another way to honor my parents and all the love they gave to me and I gave to them. It’s OK to be sad. It’s OK to miss them. It’s OK not to make a turkey dinner if I don’t feel like it. Thanksgiving is more than just a day of food and football. It’s a feeling. And if you are lucky, it’s a feeling that stays with you even when the ones who showed you what Thanksgiving means are gone. And, if you are lucky, you’ll find a way to keep that feeling deep in your heart to bring out and look at in the light when you need it the most.

So, as I sit here, sipping the last drop of Jameson, I’ve begun to feel blessed again. I have found the light again. And I know my grief is also a blessing. Because Grief = Love. Happy Thanksgiving Mom and Dad. Slainte.