The dishwasher is running again. The tablecloths and napkins are in the washing machine. The leftovers are piled in the fridge and the soup is on the stove. It’s 6:30 in the morning, and everyone else is still asleep.
I made a cup of tea and put a fire in the fireplace. This is my moment to relax in the aftermath of a successful Thanksgiving celebration.
I was a little obsessive about the planning this year, but I think my color-coded, time-ordered lists paid off. It all came together smoothly. Both turkeys were delicious. Nothing was burnt, and nothing was raw (although the sweet potatoes could have used a few more minutes in the oven). There were lots of laughs and a few family arguments, a bunch of old stories and a new board game.
And it was our first family holiday without Papa. My husband’s father passed away in April. Over the past few months, we’ve all grieved, but I was honestly worried that this holiday was going to be pretty awful. I talked with my mother-in-law and I talked with my husband, and we tried to create moments for remembering. Conversation starters at the dinner table. A memory book. Familiar songs.
But in the course of the evening, those things didn’t play out exactly like we imagined. We asked people to share memories at the dinner table. We started by going around the table, but as conversations are wont to do, stories evolved into other stories, and devolved into arguments about details, and not everyone got a turn.
We put the memory book on the table, but it sat unopened as we chatted and caught up and played games.
Jack prepared a few songs on the guitar, but we didn’t quite get to them, and the kids serenaded us with silly songs instead.
But what I didn’t realize is that we didn’t have to try to create these moments of remembrance. They just happened. “Papa taught me that.” “He loved this song.” “Papa would disagree.” “Remember the time…?” Someone asked Kyle about his college essay; he brought out his chromebook and let Nana read his beautiful tribute to his grandfather.
We didn’t have to manufacture the celebration of his life. All of the people in this house were here because of him. We ARE the celebration of his life. Our inside jokes and our political arguments and our oft-repeated stories. The shouting and the stubbornness and the delicious food and the tendency to drink too much and laugh too loud…. The tough love and the good advice and the gratitude… He is in all of those things and in all of us in a way that isn’t quite as apparent when we’re all scattered and living our separate lives.
He is there in our gathering. It’s palpable and beautiful and bittersweet. I’m pretty sure it’s exactly what Papa would have wanted.