We show up at the door shaking the cold from our hair. You open up and let us in, and a kiss then a hug that's a little awkward because neither of us is sure when to let go and so it's stilted and strange, but I'm expecting this. You're probably wearing a bright yellow apron and I say something sarcastic and affectionate which you grin at.
"Come in, come in. Happy Thanksgiving."
Right to the kitchen, controlled chaos, and to cooking. Sweet potato gnocchi? Green bean casserole with deep fried shallots and homemade mushroom sauce that's twice as expensive but half as good as the original? Maybe both. You stand above the turkey with an electric knife and I chuckle at the gender role that you've assumed for years and are actually quite convincing at, despite the fact that you've never watched a Sunday football game in its entirety and you're still in that silly yellow apron. I'm really amused and forget that I'm chopping with a sharp knife and I cut myself, and although it doesn't hurt there's a lot of blood. I calmly run my finger under water and apply pressure while you lose your shit. You are in crisis mode: you run through the house frantically looking for a band-aid and talking yourself down which I laugh at more. I let you put the bandage on and I am irreparably touched by your tenderness and your concern and your kindness, because I am still your baby after all these 31 years.
The meal is fast and plentiful, and before we know it it's dessert which we somehow find room for, and then we sit and smile and finish our wine and then it's time to go.
So we hug goodbye and this time it's a little more natural because we shared a meal, and I give you a kiss and leave you to do the dishes. I drive off and go home and go to sleep.
If you were here.
