Every year of my life, Thanksgiving meant one thing. Going to Mama’s house.
It did not matter what was going on or how busy everybody was. You could count on that house being full. Kids running through the halls, people trying to squeeze past each other in the kitchen, football on the TV, somebody laughing in every room. There was always too much food. Turkey, dressing, pies, and things you only saw once a year. Somehow it all fit on that table and somehow we all fit into that house.
And every single year, by the time the dishes were washed and the leftovers were packed up, Mama would sit down, wipe her hands on a dish towel, and say, “I am not doing this next year. Y’all can have it somewhere else.” We all knew better. Next November would roll around and there she would be again, planning the menu, making her list, and getting that house ready like always. That was just who she was.
Then came Thanksgiving 2022. If I had known it was going to be the last one at her house, I would have memorized every little moment. The sound of her voice in the kitchen. The way she fussed and smiled at the same time. The feeling of walking through that front door and knowing I was home. At the time, it just felt like another Thanksgiving. I had no idea that in 2023 she would be gone and that everything would change.
Now the holidays do not feel the same. We can cook the same food and tell the same stories, but there is an empty place that nothing can fill. I miss her voice. I miss her bossing everybody around. I even miss hearing her say she was not going to have it next year, knowing deep down that she would.
If your mama is still here and you are gathering at her house this year, slow down and soak it in. One day you will look back and realize that what felt like “just another Thanksgiving” was really the last one. And you will wish with all your heart that you could walk through that door one more time.