Chapter 14 - Thanksgiving on Our Terms
The Thursday before Thanksgiving dawned cold, bright, and completely quiet.
There were no frantic phone calls about seating arrangements, no demands for dietary accommodations, and no last-minute text messages asking if we could cover the turkey or bring an extra pie.
For the first time in twelve years, Thanksgiving dinner at our house was small, simple, and entirely ours.
Tamika and her son, Leo, came over around one o'clock, bringing a massive tray of garlic mashed potatoes and a homemade sweet potato casserole. Dwight smoked a twelve-pound turkey out on our backyard smoker using hickory chips he’d seasoned himself, filling the neighborhood with a rich, savory aroma that made Cal hover by the back door every ten minutes asking if it was done yet.
We set the dining room table with our everyday blue ceramic plates—no paper plates, no plastic silverware, and no handwritten name cards taped to the backs of lawn chairs.
Just four chairs. Just the people who mattered.
"Who wants the drumstick?" Dwight asked, carving the turkey right at the kitchen island with a long, sharp butcher knife while the kitchen filled with steam and laughter.
"Me!" Cal shouted, raising his hand so fast he nearly knocked over his glass of apple cider.
I stood by the kitchen sink, washing my hands, and looked out through the sparkling clean window toward the side gate.
The wind was blowing softly through the brown grass, rattling the metal latch of the gate just a little. But nobody was standing out there waiting to be let in. Nobody was checking their watch, worried about missing a cocktail hour or a country club reservation.
May you like
The front gate was just a gate now.
Dwight caught my eye across the kitchen island, reading the quiet contentment on my face. He smiled, winked, and handed me a warm slice of turkey skin on the tip of a fork—the best part, saved just for me.
