Consumption

My brother, Mike, tells people his favorite holidays are those that center around food and I tend to agree with him. So, naturally, we both love Thanksgiving. When I think about Thanksgiving, I think about turkey and stuffing and mashed potatoes and three types of pie and green beans and the cranberry sauce which never seems to be eaten. I think about how much work we put into cooking that one meal, about my stepmother organizing grocery lists as early as September, and about my Aunts trying to one-up each other's pumpkin pie recipes. I think about how--for one meal--we dedicate an entire holiday and close schools and banks and spend money we might not have on the right plates on which to serve turkey and fly miles to share that one meal with the ones we most love. Thanksgiving, as I have come to know it, happens between appetizers and desserts.

So, when I came home from Wake Forest University this weekend, I expected Thanksgiving feed me and to feed me well. (And, let me tell you, I have missed being well fed.) I expected to feel it in the fullness of my belly and to look around at the people with which I had shared that beautiful meal and feel thankful for their company. And then, I expected to go to bed and for tomorrow to just be Friday.

But, I was wrong. I felt Thanksgiving when I looked out my airplane window and saw buildings I have walked through. I felt Thanksgiving in the sound of Jeff Tweedy's voice, in the ambient interludes, in the alphabetical stacks of songs I've missed. I felt Thanksgiving in the scent of my house and my mother's obvious attempt to straighten it up. I felt Thanksgiving in the familiar hug of my best friend, in the tears that filled both of our eyes, in how I would only break it so that I could hear her speak. I felt Thanksgiving in the bombarding questions of my friends' mothers, in their overwhelming interest in a life they used to live. I felt Thanksgiving in how quickly we revisited traditions, in how easily we could forget that time had past. I felt Thanksgiving in the songs my friends sang, in the harmonies I have always heard but will never contribute to, in the comfort of never having to. I felt Thanksgiving in the chorus of laughter, in the variety of each laugh from one another, in the comfort of how easily they blend together. I felt Thanksgiving in the conversations that reached beyond us and I felt it in the nearness they still represented. I felt Thanksgiving in Prospect Park, in my cozy bed, in the farthest back booth at Denny's, in the hallways of a school I graduated from, in the cake shakes and the phone calls and my dad's CD collection. I felt Thanksgiving here. At home. Where I have always felt it, even if it took me this long to notice.

This weekend I have learned that Thanksgiving means coming home--coming home to hugs and smells and sounds and places and, yes, foods that I know and love and am thankful to consume.