Memories of Paul are front and center these days.
Thanksgiving was one of his favorite holidays mostly because of the food. He could eat turkey and stuffing every day.
A hot turkey sandwich with mashed potatoes and gravy on the side was often his choice when eating out. Sometimes we made the traditional Thanksgiving Day fare long after the holiday had passed.
Early in our relationship, he made a full course Thanksgiving dinner for some of his friends and me. I can still see him sweating in his upper flat’s small kitchen: Slicing turkey, whipping up mashed potatoes, focused on getting everything to the table at the same time.
I was so impressed; I think I fell in love with him a little more than I already was that night.
I couldn’t help but think of him as I prepared the turkeys this week. I would have called on him to help me get the slippery birds — oiled and seasoned — into the cooking bags.
It’s his stuffing recipe that I use to make what has become a favorite at my family’s Thanksgiving Day gathering.
He would have been more than happy to sample the finished products before packing everything up to take to my sister’s house for dinner.
Though he wasn’t with me this year, he kind of was. Every memory of Thanksgivings past brought him closer.
When people say our loved ones now gone are still with us, I think this is what they mean: They come alive to us through our memories.
My mom is nearer to me on Thanksgiving, too.
She’s the one who taught me how to cook a turkey years ago while I was still living with my parents. She had wrenched her back a few days before Thanksgiving Day and was confined to bed. From her bedroom, she talked me through pulling out the neck and gizzards (see JoAnn gag!) and then how to season, stuff and bake it.
From that year on, I’ve been the one to make the Thanksgiving Day turkey for the family.
Last year Paul was too sick to enjoy his favorite feast.
The chemotherapy drugs that couldn’t stop the cancer had killed his appetite. I had to encourage him to at least taste the turkey. He wanted to enjoy it, but just couldn’t.
He was placed in hospice care one week later. In a few weeks, it will be a year that he’s been gone.
Now I interact with him through my memories of our everyday life together, and take comfort in the words of L. M. Montgomery in her book, The Story Girl:
“Nothing is ever really lost to us as long as we remember it.”
How could I forget?
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Memories have the power to comfort us or cause us pain. How have memories of moments once shared with loved ones brought them closer to you now that they are gone? What new memories did you make this year on Thanksgiving? I’d love to hear from you.
