You take these little cartons of this and that; containers of gravy, stuffing, vegetables, cranberry sauce, mashed potatoes and then there is the Godforsaken turkey itself. Was it really this big when I cooked it?
Smoosh it in.
Find ways to make it fit.
Press the door shut, but it won't and so... shift it all around, shift it some more, close the door.
I lean on the refrigerator door and look around the room. It's different here then it usually is or... maybe that usual is gone and maybe then it should from now on be called how it usually was and that means of course that this is how it usually will be.
nope
And this, this abundance of food is how I show my love - today.
Unwittingly inspired to make a turkey dinner a week before Thanks Giving. (What exactly was I thinking? And yes days from now, when and if they finish this humungous meal, they won't be remotely interested in turkey anything on the holiday itself.)
My intentions were good and so is the gravy, this time around.
As I drive home and leave my father, not well - and his wife, laid up with a broken bone, I am deflated and sort of lost. I like it better when I am not well and I have the broken bone, because they are awfully good at taking care of me. I on the other hand prepare a large turkey....
I look across the low hills toward the Pacific and I slow my car to a reasonable 75 mph, because the sun is sitting gingerly just above the sea and it's all pink on the glistening water and all orange in the sherbet sky and everything around is gold and it's amazing and it makes me want to cry. I lower the radio and tell the kids to look at it so they can see the pink, orange, gold amazingness and maybe cry too.
Turn up the music again. Van Morrison plays softly and fills my head.
I think about my new, little old lake house and about how I painted there this weekend. How I loved rolling the paint on my future weekend bedroom walls. I stayed until the light was completely gone. Think about how I drove down the mountain and saw a scarlet red sky over the distant ocean far below. How I wished then that I could have shared it with someone, anyone. How I wanted so very badly to reach over to the passenger seat, put my hand on someone/anyone's knee and without speaking, tell them to look at that sky with me. I wanted a man beside me and I want that man again today. I want my father. I realize that, more then anything, I want him to ride with me, up the hills, round the bends, through the tall trees and down into the town, along the lakeside then up the tiny road and into the driveway of the dove grey lake house. I want him to see it, because it will make him feel better if he does. It will.
It will make him feel better then 12 lbs of perfectly cooked turkey with all the trimmings, expertly crammed into his fridge.
Together we will go into the mystic...
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