The Day Before Is A Day Of Yearning

The nicest Thanksgiving I have ever had was my first in Seattle. Rick and I had just moved there the month before, and we knew no one. No one except for the nice people at Victrola coffeehouse. And them only to the extent that you can learn about someone while they pour your coffee. You know, “oh, you’re from somewhere else too,” “oh, you have a kid,” “oh, we graduated from the same college” – small stuff like that. Little nice things that get stuffed into collections of three minutes at a time.

Someone behind the counter invited us to her house for Thanksgiving that year. We were stunned and grateful and too lonely to say no. We showed up with nothing but our sparkling wit. (Actually, no. We showed up with just nothing. We must have looked so bedraggled and worn standing there on that doorstep, waiting for the door to open. More like lost children than engaging guests.)

I have never in my whole life been so warmly received.

Nearly the entire Victrola staff was there. Also, nearly the entire family of our host. And the most charming little boy I have ever had the pleasure to meet.

There were four or so tables set up for everyone. White tablecloths. Wine glasses. Cranberries tossed in sugar. Pumpkin pies baked with honey. And after all the eating was done, we built a fort and pretended to be – I don’t quite remember…animals? cowboys?

It’s one of those sepia-toned, Vaseline-on-the-lens memories I keep. Of how Thanksgiving should feel. And I bring it up now because I am feeling nostalgic and petulant.

Because I am filled with the urge to clean my house; build a tent made of sheets in the living room; eat turkey sandwiches while perched on big, squishy pillows piled on the floor; run my fork lazily through a pumpkin cheesecake; and fill the room with the scent of apples baking in cinnamon and clove.

Instead, this year will be full of car trips and family, bustling and strangers, and maybe even snow. I am excited for it. I am happy about going to grandma’s. Happy to potluck with the people who fuss over and care for her everyday, like Rick and I would if she were near. Happy to bake a chocolate zucchini cake to share. Happy to drive and to chatter and to hug hello. But I feel shy and kind of sad to trudge off into that world outside my front door.

Make warm. Make warm. Make warm. It pulses in my head. And it seems to be all I want to do: me, Rick, and Lila shut up snugly inside.

But maybe I’ve got it all wrong. Maybe warm isn’t something you make on your own. Maybe it’s something you give. And receive.

I hope so. I hope that is the lesson of Thanksgivings past.