Mama and Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving comes again, Mama,

and your chair still waits at the table.

I find myself looking at that empty place,

remembering the way, you smiled

when everyone finally sat down

and the room felt full.

I miss the sound of your voice

calling us in from the kitchen,

telling us to taste the stuffing,

checking twice if the rolls were burning.

I miss how you always knew

what each of us needed,

a hug, a joke, a gentle nudge

to get along for one day.

The house is quieter now,

but every corner holds a memory:

you laughing at a story you’d heard

a hundred times,

you reaching for my hand

when the prayer was said,

you making sure everyone had enough

before you ever served yourself.

I try to carry you into the holiday,

by cooking what you taught me,

by being patient the way you were,

by keeping the family close

even when it’s hard.

It isn’t the same.

But it’s something.

This Thanksgiving, Mama,

I give thanks for you,

for every year you were here,

for every lesson you left behind,

for the love that doesn’t leave

just because you had to.

And as we sit down to eat,

I say a silent thank you

for the woman who made

every Thanksgiving feel like home.