made and making
i remember thanksgiving growing up. we would scurry around like little mice to make it by noon. mom would ask if i’d gone to the bathroom and i would say no and then the two lines between her eyes would appear and i would hurry and try. at some point we would go to dad’s family who had tan skin and gave cheek kisses. we would end the day at grandma’s eating ice cream out of speckled bowls, watching M*A*S*H. in the morning i would wake up to grandma in the kitchen in her suede green bath robe.
we usually rode home at night. mom and dad would listen to rich mullins and talk in hushed voices in the front, their faces going light and dark under the street lights. i slept whole and happy in the back.
thanksgiving felt really different this year. almost not like thanksgiving at all.
i walked through the grocery store in my pajamas. i made stuffing, cranberries, and sweet potatoes at the same time. i cleared the house of dishes and laundry in order to clean the house so i could prepare the house for christmas. right now we wait for him to wake up to pick out the tree. it’s on my shoulders to get these things done.
this is the difference between being made and making.
somewhere between the cranberries and the stuffing i realized that we are creating a childhood. isn’t it funny that something so dear to us is made by another? and something so dear to them is made by us. it’s why twenty years later i still think of that day and why twenty years from now he will still think of this day. it’s why these moments matter so much.