Over the River

“Come on, kids. We’ll be late.”

I used to say that. We’d pile into the car with a pie or something special and dash to Grandma’s for Thanksgiving dinner. I enjoyed the food, but I loved spending time with my extended family even more. I knew the kids would learn this. They’d see how to treasure the holiday and the togetherness.

That’s what I used to do.

Now, my parents are gone, my siblings have scattered and my first children have grown and are pursuing lives of their own.

Sandi and I kept the tradition of Thanksgiving at Grandma’s with James and Ian as long as we could. Ours was a smaller family circle, but we packed boys and goodies into the car and drove to eat with her. For years we did this until she, too, had passed.

James took the loss of his grandmother particularly hard and came to me one Thanksgiving morning while the turkey slow-roasted in the oven.

“Dad, where are we going?”

“Nowhere. We’re staying home.”

“Is anyone coming to our house? Aunt Debbie and Uncle Jeff? Devin and Tyler?”

“No, James. They’re staying in Kentucky.” I studied him. “Are you missing Grandma?”

He wouldn’t meet my eye, and his voice was small. “Yes.”

“So am I.” I put my arm around him. “Tell you what. We’ll set a place for her. Grandma will know she’s welcome, and just because we can’t see her, won’t mean she isn’t here. She’ll have Thanksgiving dinner with us, almost like she used to.”

“Are you sure she’ll come?”

“Everyone comes home for Thanksgiving.”

Our family circle is small and woven with bonds of affection, both acknowledged and unrecognized. We share our Thanksgivings with one another and with the memory of those whom we still love, but cannot see.

William R. Bartlett lives in Belton with his family.