As I rounded the corner, it was painfully obvious that the parking lot was full. My plan to beat the holiday rush didn’t seem to be unfolding as I had hoped. I took a deep breath, sighed, and began the requisite circling. I eventually noticed the glowing back-up lights of a gray SUV. I switched on my blinker and waited patiently, mentally preparing myself for the frenetic activity that would surely be taking place within the store. I pulled into the parking spot, put the car in park, and briefly rested my forehead on the steering wheel. Thanksgiving. The first Thanksgiving without my mom. It’s still difficult to believe she’s gone. I shook my head and felt something tickle my cheek. I swiftly raised my hand to brush it away. Another tear. I often don’t even realize I’ve begun to cry until I see the evidence. Even when I’m moving through life and seemingly focused on other things, my body continues to grieve – to shed tears. I breathed deeply, gathered my things, and opened the car door.
As I approached the store, I saw the first of the seasonal bell ringers. “Happy holidays,” the pleasant gentleman exclaimed. I felt a lump immediately form in my throat and my eyes filled with tears. I quickly began rummaging through my pockets – busying myself to thwart what could easily become a deluge of tears. I carefully avoided eye contact, placed my contribution into his bucket, and mumbled, “You too” as I rushed through the door. I wrangled a cart free from the tangled mass and looked at my list as I wheeled to the produce. Green beans. Onions. Cranberries. I sighed. We always seemed to forget to put the cranberries on the table. The reality was becoming clear. Thanksgiving would be very different this year.
With head bowed slightly and eyes focused on my list, I navigated the cart through the consumer-filled maze. By the time I reached the poultry, I had regained some composure. I didn’t think I was in danger of creating a scene with a sudden onslaught of tears, but I fully realized that could change at any moment. Grief bursts are incredibly unpredictable, and unfortunately, they rarely go unnoticed. That said, the shoppers seemed so distracted with their own lists that I felt confident I could fly under the radar if the unthinkable did occur. This was somewhat comforting. But just as I let my guard down, my eyes locked with a pair of twinkling blue eyes that belonged to a beautiful little girl. Perched in the front of her mother’s cart, her hands were clutching a crumbling cookie, and her legs were dangling freely below the seat. She gave me a quick once over and smiled brightly. I attempted to return the pleasantry, but all I could manage was a weak grin. Her brows furrowed and a look of concern crossed her face. She reached toward me and touched my hand with her soggy, crumb-covered little fingers. My eyes moistened again. I was both comforted and taken aback by this pure little soul. I managed a quiet “hello” and intentionally averted my gaze. I reached for the closest turkey and quickly returned to my cart determined to keep the flood gates intact.
As the distance between us grew, I stopped again to glance at my list. Eggs. Butter. Cream. I inhaled slowly. Pumpkin Pie. Mom loved pumpkin pie. As I made my way through the crowd, I thought about the many Thanksgiving holidays we shared. When I was a child, Mom made everything look so easy. She created magic. The food, the family, the fun – how lucky we were. When I was a young mom, she performed the same magic in my kitchen. The love, the laughter, the leftovers – what wonderful memories. A spontaneous smile spread across my face, and for a few moments, my heart felt a little lighter. Thanksgiving will be different, but I know that Mom wants us to be happy, to enjoy each other’s company, and to create new memories.
I took one final look at my list. Chicken broth. Creamed soup. Croutons. I blinked away the tears that were threatening to spill from my eyes. Mom’s stuffing. Mom was a great cook, and her stuffing was always a highlight of our Thanksgiving meal. Truth be told, she was a natural cook. She was one who would add a “pinch” of this and a “dash” of that and her notes included phrases like “season to taste”. My Type A, rule-following personality does better with exact measurements, but I’m going to give it a try. I have some pretty big shoes to fill, but I believe that she will be with me on Thanksgiving Day whispering words of encouragement as I attempt to carry on this tradition. It isn’t about perfection, it’s about honoring my mom, and being thankful for the time we had with her.
If you are experiencing a different Thanksgiving this year, my heart is with yours. Give yourself permission to grieve but remember to also make space for joy. It’s okay to laugh, to think about something else, to create new memories. Feeling happiness doesn’t make the life of your loved one any less valuable. It doesn’t mean you are forgetting how important that person was to you. It doesn’t mean that you are completely healed. It means you are making your way through grief. You are doing the work – the messy, unpredictable, very difficult work. Wherever you are in your grief journey this Thanksgiving, I wish you comfort and peace.