Thanksgiving lunch was served at four. Nothing about this is uncharacteristic of my family. We say get there at two but expect festivities (namely, eating) to occur hours later. The stickler in me wishes things would start on time, if only so that we can eat more later without feeling uncomfortably gluttonous. Each adult brought a side prepared in a hurry. Most sides included cheese. Let the applause begin.
I love my family - that we regularly meet and share meals with each other is a gift. The room is all honesty, freedom, comfort. Mother cooks. The children poke fun at her and each other. We pick at the preparations. She swats our hands, and fathers. We gather around the counter and open the fridge out of habit. We eat. Second helpings are encouraged. Eventually, our stomachs are too full. We recline on the floor or couch or stairs. Some change into pajamas reserved for this transition. We watch a movie. Some people talk over the movie. Some people are annoyed by this. None of it matters. These are our rituals, the symbols of our closeness. Birthdays around our wooden dining table in a dim room, lit only by candles and cheerful singing is a sacred experience. My family meets and shares meals despite the transgressions of the past. That communion can occur in a house filled with memories of regret, pain, betrayal, and dishonesty, is beyond me. I give thanks.
