Thanksgiving 2009

Things change.

Even as I sit down to write this, my mind is flooded with memories.

It used to snow in Kentucky on Thanksgiving.

And we used to all pile in the mini van and take the "long" way from Long Avenue to Severn Way.

For years and years, things remained the same.

So much the same that I cannot differentiate between the years.

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Things change.

We tried to keep it from happening for a season.

Tried to pretend that the very make-up of our family dynamic hadn't been shattered.

Tried to pretend like our lives could continue on as they had for decades.

But you can only pretend for so long.

You can only avoid change for a while,

before your very body starts to respond.

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Things change.

On my own, I began the painful process of untying the binds.

I felt like the only one.

The only one willing to close the door and walk away.

But it needed to happen.

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Things change.

And I began to realize that one of the greatest signs of maturity, one of the greatest indicators of growing up, was an ability to love the essence of something.

To tell the difference between love of tradition and a love of comfort and normalcy.

As the holiday season approached, I felt an increasing sense of dread rise up in my chest.

This is not how I'm supposed to feel, I kept thinking.

I should be thankful and full of joy.

But we were trying to put new wine in old wineskin.

We were trying so desperately to hold on to something -

for the sake of our own hearts, for the sake of our own comfort.

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So, with one swift motion, I cut the cord.

The holidays are about you, the people I love.

You, the ones my heart adores.

And I couldn't care less about the china we use, or the time we eat dinner, or what casseroles are served.

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Things change.

In the past few years, my life has changed drastically.

The lives of the people I love have been dramatically altered.

We could have never known we'd be here, today.

Because we are not that creative.

Because our ideas are not that great.

You see,

You can't make this stuff up.

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So for the first time ever, I enjoyed multiple Thanksgiving dinners.

On Wednesday I was in Winchester. With additional family members and guests and tables set up in the living room.

On Wednesday night, a question was asked and a promise was made.

Yes. Absolutely. Always.

On Thursday, I went to a new house for Thanksgiving.

And read a book. Which made me cry.

Loved on three little girls.

Before heading to the place that I grew up.

The only place of consistency in my life.

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And even Severn Way had changed.

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I was handed a glass of wine.

And we laughed until our sides hurt as Betty raced up the back lawn in her scooter, trying to get up to the second floor for the first time in a year.

We were missing a sister.

And we had added a brother.

Some time in the afternoon, three of my favorite women in the world darkened the door of my childhood for the first time.

Family.

They are my family. They are my loves. They are part of my story.

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Things change.

But some things do not.

My love for you is one of those things.

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But my Father in Heaven knows my heart.

And as the evening wound down and we sat with full bellies, laughing in the basement,

I watched as my sister walked upstairs.

In just a moment, I heard her slide the piano stool across the floor.

And I almost cried as she started playing Carol of the Bells.

She'd never been the one to make the music before.

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"When you tell a story you automatically talk about traditions, but they're never separate from the people, the human implications. You're talking about your connections as a human being." Gayl Jones