Thanksgiving has always held a special place in my heart, primarily shaped by my experiences growing up. While many might associate this holiday with grand gatherings filled with extended family, my own memories are woven into quiet, intimate moments shared with my father. The essence of Thanksgiving for me was never about the size of the gathering but the profound connection I had with him.
My journey with the holiday began in a different light. Following my parents’ divorce when I was just two years old, I spent my childhood alternating between two distinct worlds during the holiday season. Christmas meant lively family reunions in New York, surrounded by a flurry of relatives and the delightful chaos of children. In stark contrast, Thanksgiving was a cozy affair, characterized by simplicity and heartfelt connection.
The charm of simple traditions
Thanksgiving at my father’s modest apartment on the fringes of Washington, D.C, was a cherished ritual. With little more than the two of us, we embarked on our culinary quest, hunting for the smallest turkey we could find, which inevitably turned out to be larger than we anticipated. Our discussions would often sway between the idea of crafting stuffing from scratch and the practicality of opting for a reliable pre-made mix. We would settle for the latter, convinced that it was, after all, quite enjoyable.
In our cozy socks, with the radio humming in the background, we prepared our meal. Each year seemed to bring a new mishap in our mashed potato endeavor, with the most memorable disaster occurring when we mistakenly swapped butter for extra virgin olive oil. Despite these culinary blunders, the laughter and warmth in our small kitchen made every moment worthwhile.
A moment of gratitude
When the meal was finally ready, we would gather at my father’s tiny dining table. Although we never formally recited a prayer, we shared a moment of gratitude. My father, with a tender smile, would express his appreciation for everything we had, particularly our bond. Together, we would reflect on the many blessings in our lives—his joy in my achievements, from college to my first job, always punctuated by his loving acknowledgment of me as his one and only daughter.
As time went on, our Thanksgiving table expanded. My father found love again, marrying Cindy, a master in the kitchen who effortlessly prepared the holiday feast. And when I married Harry, our family traditions grew, yet the essence remained unchanged. We still cooked together, wore our socks, and listened to the radio, as my father’s bright smile lit up the room while he shared his heartfelt thanks.
Confronting change and loss
As my own life blossomed, Thanksgiving continued to feel like a celebration of my father’s love. Even when distance separated us, he would always remind me how thankful he was for me and later, for my daughter Margot. His joy expanded with the arrival of his granddaughter, as he often remarked on how lucky he felt to have her in his life.
The anticipation of Thanksgiving was palpable as we made plans to gather in Maryland. However, just weeks before the holiday, my world shifted dramatically when my father was diagnosed with advanced lung cancer. Although I held on to hopes of celebrating together, he ultimately decided he wasn’t up to it. Instead, he attempted to create a festive atmosphere from afar, suggesting we order from a nearby restaurant. I assured him we would be fine and had friends who invited us over for dinner.
Grieving amidst the holidays
Yet, the truth remained unspoken—a painful, overwhelming sorrow that threatened to engulf me. Soon after Thanksgiving, my father entered hospice care. During our visits, Margot would share her latest songs, and he would listen with the same attentive love that had marked their relationship from the very beginning. The reality of saying goodbye felt surreal when he still seemed so much himself, albeit frail.
When he passed away just a few months later, my life became a series of ups and downs filled with grief. As I navigated daily routines, I found myself reflecting on the many firsts—the calls, the goodbyes, and the moments that now felt achingly empty. Despite the sorrow, Thanksgiving continued to be a reminder of my father’s spirit.
Finding a new way to celebrate
As the next Thanksgiving approached, I reached out to Cindy, expressing a desire to spend the day with her. We agreed that it didn’t need to be a traditional meal; we could simply be together. In the haze of my grief, I wasn’t entirely sure what I needed, but it felt essential to share that day with someone who understood the depth of our loss.
This Thanksgiving, as I drive my family to Maryland, I know we will create a new memory together, whether we share pizza or reminisce about the past. I may not know what the future holds for our holiday traditions, but I am certain that I will honor my father’s legacy by expressing gratitude for my daughter, just as he would have done. The love we shared will always remain a guiding light, illuminating our way forward.