Not Enough Chairs at the Table

There weren't enough chairs at the table this Thanksgiving, but I don't think anyone else noticed it.

I mean, there were chairs for everyone that was expected: my mother-in-law of course, since it was her house! My sisters-in-law, brothers-in-law, nieces, nephews, me and my husband. We were all seated around the expanded wooden table in an assortment of dining, office, and folding chairs.

But there weren't enough chairs for everyone that I saw.

As we passed the jellied log of cranberries I saw my Grandma bringing her famous fruited cranberry relish in the usual Tupperware-influenced ring to the table.

As the programmed frame on the wooden desk scrolled through photos of grandchildren and other loved ones, I looked to my left expecting to see the plastic-topped card table and my cousins sitting knee to knee making forts out of their mashed potatoes and gagging over the creamed onions. But that was over 40 years ago now, and they are at their own homes with their own families.

As the guys were recruited to slice the turkey I almost put the pot holders on the lace tablecloth so the lasagna could cool from molten lava-cheese into something that would only burn the tops of our mouth. But that was another family, my birth-family now long gone, and no one here makes lasagna for Thanksgiving.

There was a calendar on the desk, too, but no phone book. And that was good, since there were no little ones in need of an improvised booster seat. I can remember clear as day how to make one: a city phone book under the 'dupa' of the child, and two kitchen towels knotted around their waist and through the back of the chair. My grandsons, who are also not here, have long outgrown such contrivances, but I am sure I could whip one up if ever it was needed.

I couldn't watch the turkey being readied for the table, and I don't know who got the wishbone. It isn't the same when I don't have to dodge my mother (or my daughter) as we all reached for the perfectly crisped skin with the same cry of "I really shouldn't, but it's just once a year...".

Because they aren't here, either. They needed no seats at this table. My daughters are with their family's families and my mom died this year; she died and I haven't shared that with these dear people because I don't know how to explain what that means to me and the aching loss that makes me want to run out of this house even as I am marveling that they welcome me as their own.

Once everyone was seated, and after the inevitable trips up and down to retrieve just one more item for the table (was it salt? a serving spoon? already I can't remember yesterday as well as I can remember 1978), it was time for the dinner blessing.

Sometimes we hold hands for grace, me and this family that has welcomed me into the fold and whose name I have taken as my own. Sometimes not, and I can't tell when is when.

But I grabbed hold of my husband's hand as I reached for the right hand of my niece. Part of it was surely the desire to be connected in gratitude for the meal made possible by so many willing and loving hands.

Also? Part of it was to keep myself grounded in the NOW. To stop myself from tumbling down-down-down into that dark and deep place I can see out of the corner of my eye. That, whatever-you-call-it: seasonal depression, trauma, grief, mourning.

The nostalgia for what you thought things were and the desire to experience it again even if it was wishful thinking while you lived it.

I felt them all, every one, as we passed around the food and caught up with the lives of this family of my adult years. My grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, parents, brothers, sisters, children; none there, and some I'll never see again in this life.

Most, were I able to be honest with myself; most, I'll never see again in this life.

There was no time spent singing after dinner- a tradition at my grandparents because Gramma was an accomplished piano player. Either she played or she encouraged her grandchildren to hunt and peck out the old songs. No, this year it was a lovely and appreciated walk after dinner and the tradition of this family: setting up the tree and decorating for Christmas.

And as I hugged her goodbye and whispered to my mother-in-law: "Thank you. I love you", I surely said it to her like a prayer. Of course it was meant for her- I am so happy she calls me 'daughter' that I almost wag my tail in appreciation just as her poodle does when given something that nourishes them with love. Each time with her is treasured and I want to wrap her in soft wool and keep her safe-safe-safe.

It was also meant for those that accompany me when family gathers, that cloud of memories no one else sees. Thank you for what I thought I had when I thought I had what it was even though it wasn't.

On the way home I held my husband's hand. He told me, again, that promise he put inside my wedding band: "I'm not going anywhere", and I know it is true.

~~

I'm writing this on Friday after Thanksgiving. My husband is out sitting for a deer, and I've had this on my mind since yesterday.

Families: those of your childhood, those you create, those that you join, those that assemble around you. All shape you in one way or another, just as you shape them.

This year the grief has surrounded me like a shawl that I can't seem to untangle, tied with regret, rejection, clarity, and pain. I pray none of this feels familiar to you, and that it helps if it does.

Comments always welcomed.