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Thanksgiving Mourning

I awake to the sounds of soft jazz and the smell of sweet cinnamon-laced coffee brewing downstairs. The early morning sun peeks softly through the window blinds, but my feather bed envelopes me in comfort and I am its impassioned prisoner.

When the smell of blueberry muffins reaches my nose I remember what day it is. We always have Mom's special blueberry muffins on Thanksgiving morning.

There is a slight chill in the room, so I throw on my old flannel robe. It is the tartan plaid one Dad gave me for Christmas some 10 years ago. The pocket is torn and its colors are faded, but the warmth of my father holds me tight. Warm, fuzzy slippers are just the remedy for walking on the cold and creaky, but sturdy oak floors that have been on this earth much longer than me.

My family is busy downstairs. As my sister sets the table, our grandmother pours the coffee and Mother proudly breathes in the deliciousness of her freshly baked gems. I look at my sister and we smile. We all exchange pleasantries as we mingle together in the small, warm kitchen.

We are four women, three generations strong.

The well-worn whitewashed table, which my father made years ago, is set with Mother's favorite china. Father gave her the unique plateware on their 20th anniversary after she fell in love with it during a trip to Paris. Tasteful, dainty yellow flowers line the ivory white porcelain with its fine gold trim. He always had an eye for beauty and artistry. That is why he married my mother.

He was a passionate craftsman and painter trapped in the suit of a businessman. She was a stalwart teacher with the heart of an angel, who loved to bake for her family especially around the holidays. Together they raised two daughters in a Cape Cod-style house that became their sacred haven. Theirs was a love story usually found in fables. But this one was real and enduring.

As we sit down to enjoy our bounty, the happy chatter suddenly stops. In uncomfortable silence we feel the emptiness of the chair at the head of the table that is vacant for the first time in more than 35 years. When the silence becomes deafening, my sister places a warm, buttered blueberry muffin on a gold-trimmed plate and gently sets it on the table in front of my father's empty chair.

We all watch quietly, nod approvingly and glance at each other lovingly. He is here. We say to ourselves. He will always be here. For that we are thankful and sure.

Learn more about this author, Kenda Robertson.
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