Not ready ~

I don’t know whether it’s the fact that M is still far away in Argentina, and Gin on the other side of the continent in RI. Or if maybe it’s because I’d decided to move our Thanksgiving dinner up to Wednesday this year so that all families might be satisfied with kid company. Or that the night was odd—story bits, worry about logistics, questions, answers, turns of phrase, emails envisioned, puppies’ needs met—all tossed like bits of salad into anything but sleep. Or the fact that all the Thanksgiving stuff is still in the box I hauled down from the loft on the very first of November.  And this year, I finally packed up the dishes a well-meaning relative had chosen for me when I married – in favor of something I’d chosen myself.  If only I’d chosen something.  Maybe it’s even the idea of adding on to the house—which will change all the ancient and familiar angles of the yard.

And that I love Thanksgiving so much.

But I found myself standing in the back aisle of Smith’s, right between the bacon and the turkeys, helpless to know how big a bird to buy for only five people, struggling to remember all the little details of the dinner we’ve been making for over thirty years.

Chaz wonders how many times the grocery people see it—a grown woman, standing frozen in an aisle, her eyes big pools of blinked back tears. Often, Chaz thinks; it must happen often.