It is Thanksgiving, and I’m sitting in my living room, watching the afternoon light as it starts to fade away from the day.
My apartment is dark and quiet. In my kitchen, there is no turkey waiting to be carved. In the oven, stuffing, sweet potatoes, and green bean casserole are nowhere to be found. There are no rolls, mashed potatoes, or canned cranberries set out in serving bowls. The seats at my kitchen table are empty, leaving the surrounding space devoid of the low din of happy conversation that normally comes with the holidays. There is nothing happening here that even remotely resembles the nostalgic way Thanksgiving always used to feel to me as I was growing up: rich, full, and abundant.
The only thing here is me, curled up underneath a blanket in the corner of my couch, drinking a cup of tea, staring up at the twinkling lights of my Christmas tree, thinking about how it’s Thanksgiving afternoon, I’m alone, and there is no pie.
It is a combination that has the potential to end poorly.
But as I look up at those tiny, white lights, my thoughts thankfully drift to something else.