Member-only story
Prose | Memoir
For the Love of Joan
Imagine with me: it’s Thanksgiving Day. The sky hangs low, a heavy grey ceiling, and there’s a nip in the air that makes you twice as thankful, since this is Texas and more often than not you celebrate the supposed-to-be-cozy holidays in a t-shirt. You’ve been awake since early, excitement dashing away the siren song of the bed, and because you are 10 years old in a very uncomplicated way, you’re already ready. The family feast is scheduled to start at 1pm, but you know that the family chef has been up since before dawn and probably put the turkey in at 6am, so — wait for it — there it is — the phone ringing, and there’s her voice on the phone telling your Dad that everything’s cooked. At 11am. Two hours before schedule. You run back to tell your Mom; she’s in the shower and immediately goes into panic mode because it takes her a long time to dress and get out the door.
Time crawls as you bounce from room to room looking for things to do to pass the time, because you are twice as excited now. You sit for a while with your Dad, who is also already ready, and try not to laugh at the audible hysteric hurry coming from the back of the house. Amid a great deal of confusion, at long last you are in the car, making the familiar trip that brings you joy every single time; by the time you…
