three (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
threeplusfire) wrote2001-11-22 11:12 am
threeplusfire) wrote2001-11-22 11:12 am
Thanksgiving day
I have rolls baking, while I read about Egypt and listen to my upstairs neighbors pound around. Watching the Macy's parade. Thinking about what I do and do not feel. About memories, the ones lost and the ones still sharp.
I can still remember my great grandmother's bedroom, the tiny horses, the chicken and blackberries on the table. Her little house, and the roses in the yard. Standing in my kitchen in Lubbock, watching my father in a black suit and not understanding why my mother wouldn't let me go with him. The book, about the boy and his grandfather who played with toy sailboats on ponds, and how the boy visited his grandfather's grave. The beginning of the nightmares that have become an integral part of my life for more than sixteen years.
I am grateful for the early years, the happiest part of my childhood. My mother who was there making blankets, who showed me how to water the garden and played with the dogs in the backyard. My father who built the sandbox and the swingset, who took me to Luby's for my birthday every year, who worked highway projects on the roof of the house. The big black dogs, Shadow and Poppi, who protected and loved me in the way of amazing animals. Even if they did chew up the toys I left in the backyard at night.
Sometimes I still feel like an only child. Never having been close to my younger sister, I can't relate to these images of conspiratorial, smiling women bound by genetics and a shared childhood who call each other and share secrets. It's just never been in me. Perhaps I ought to feel more ashamedof that, or guilty for not opening up to my sister. But it was never there, and still isn't, whatever my mother may say. There is a gap between us that makes it hard enough to be polite in the manner of acquaintances. The feeling solidified after the ugly scene my sister caused on the last night of my grandparents' visit. I don't know that person, and I don't feel a connection to her.
Thanksgiving has never been a big holiday in my family. One year, we all gathered at my grandparents' home in Houston, and I remember sitting at the big cherrywood table and wanting to eat only rolls. Playing with my cousin and sister on the bottom of the stairs. My mother and aunts helping my grandmother in the kitchen.
Later I may go see my mother, have some roast and lemon pie. My father sent me an email, his first contact with me in months. I don't know really. I don't have much desire to do anything today.
In the spirit of the holiday, and since I don't think I've done this in an organized manner since elementary school, here are things I am thankful for:
- being alive
- having some amazing people in my life
- all the lessons I've learned about life this year
- my strength, even when I can't feel it
- the beautiful and small joys of life
I can still remember my great grandmother's bedroom, the tiny horses, the chicken and blackberries on the table. Her little house, and the roses in the yard. Standing in my kitchen in Lubbock, watching my father in a black suit and not understanding why my mother wouldn't let me go with him. The book, about the boy and his grandfather who played with toy sailboats on ponds, and how the boy visited his grandfather's grave. The beginning of the nightmares that have become an integral part of my life for more than sixteen years.
I am grateful for the early years, the happiest part of my childhood. My mother who was there making blankets, who showed me how to water the garden and played with the dogs in the backyard. My father who built the sandbox and the swingset, who took me to Luby's for my birthday every year, who worked highway projects on the roof of the house. The big black dogs, Shadow and Poppi, who protected and loved me in the way of amazing animals. Even if they did chew up the toys I left in the backyard at night.
Sometimes I still feel like an only child. Never having been close to my younger sister, I can't relate to these images of conspiratorial, smiling women bound by genetics and a shared childhood who call each other and share secrets. It's just never been in me. Perhaps I ought to feel more ashamedof that, or guilty for not opening up to my sister. But it was never there, and still isn't, whatever my mother may say. There is a gap between us that makes it hard enough to be polite in the manner of acquaintances. The feeling solidified after the ugly scene my sister caused on the last night of my grandparents' visit. I don't know that person, and I don't feel a connection to her.
Thanksgiving has never been a big holiday in my family. One year, we all gathered at my grandparents' home in Houston, and I remember sitting at the big cherrywood table and wanting to eat only rolls. Playing with my cousin and sister on the bottom of the stairs. My mother and aunts helping my grandmother in the kitchen.
Later I may go see my mother, have some roast and lemon pie. My father sent me an email, his first contact with me in months. I don't know really. I don't have much desire to do anything today.
In the spirit of the holiday, and since I don't think I've done this in an organized manner since elementary school, here are things I am thankful for:
- being alive
- having some amazing people in my life
- all the lessons I've learned about life this year
- my strength, even when I can't feel it
- the beautiful and small joys of life
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