Grandma June's Thanksgiving advice
Mary stared at the empty chair at the head of the table, where Grandma June always sat. She adjusted the centerpiece, the same pinecones and dried berries arrangement Grandma had made every year, and she sighed.
The smell of cinnamon and cloves hung in the air, mingling with the lavender that still clung to the curtains Grandma had washed last spring. The wooden spoon Mary clutched had a hairline crack down its handle, smooth from years of Grandma's thumb rubbing the same spot.
Mary's fingers trembled slightly as she unfolded the recipe card for cranberry-orange relish, the corner stained with something that might have been butter from 1997. She squinted at the measurements, trying to decipher whether that was a one-third or one-half cup, while the marshmallows for the sweet potato casserole sat unopened beside her, each one the size of a golf ball. When she rolled out the pie crust, it tore. Why did I say I’ll cook Thanksgiving dinner? It’s going to be a disaster! I wish Grandma were still here. She made everything look so easy. She mumbled.
Mary watched her mother take a bite of turkey and reach for her water glass a little too quickly. Across the table, Aunt Deb chewed a green bean longer than seemed necessary. The silence stretched until Uncle Joe cleared his throat and launched into the same story about his golf tournament that he'd told at Easter. Three different forced laughs followed, none reaching their eyes. The empty chair at the head of the table seemed to grow larger.
After dinner, Mary slipped away from the halfhearted card game in the living room. In the kitchen, the last slice of pumpkin pie sat on Grandma's blue plate, the one with painted violets around the rim. The whipped cream had collapsed, trickling down into the filling like tears. Mary's finger traced the plate's edge, remembering Grandma's hands lifting the last slice of pumpkin pie, passing it to Cousin Emma, who'd just failed her nursing exam. The year before: Uncle Joe got the last slice, right after the layoffs. And once, to Mary herself, when she'd arrived with puffy eyes and no boyfriend, Grandma's weathered hand covering hers as she whispered, "Sweet things help mend tender things."
Mary's gaze drifted across the kitchen until it landed on Lily. Her niece sat on the linoleum, one hand buried in Rusty's golden fur, the other tracing invisible patterns on the floor. No humming. No fidgeting. Just those wide brown eyes staring at nothing.
Mary lifted the blue plate and grabbed two forks from the drawer. "Scoot over," she whispered, lowering herself beside Lily.
Lily's fork hovered, then dipped. Their shoulders touched as they ate, the only sounds Rusty's gentle panting and metal occasionally scraping ceramic. “I’ve been struggling at school. I have a hard time keeping up,” Lily confessed, sobbing. “It’s just too much! I’m never going to be a doctor.”
“There, there,” Mary patted the young woman’s hand. “The first year is the hardest. Once you develop your study routine and you remain consistent, it will get easier.”
“Do you think so?” Lily asked with a slight hope in her voice.
“I’m sure,” Mary laughed. “Remember? I’ve been there and done it. It wasn’t easy, but hard work and dedication always pay off.”
That night, while returning Grandma's recipe cards to their box, Mary's fingers brushed against an envelope. Inside: a yellowed index card with loops and swirls she'd recognize. The ink had faded to the color of light purple.
Mary traced the handwriting with her fingertip, leaving a smudge where a teardrop fell and heard her grandmother's voice in her mind.
Remember how I saved the last slice for those who needed it? Keep the tradition. There's always someone at the table who needs to be seen and heard.
