“Remember how crazy Thanksgivings used to be?”
mom asks, wrapping a plate of leftover lasagna for the widower next door.
“With thirty people in the house? The ones that lasted until 9 at night?”
I don’t add, ‘The ones where R. and P. and Grandma and Uncle T. were alive,’
but we’re both thinking it.
I hand dad a bowl of vegetable scraps for the chickens as he shuffles into the cold 5pm November darkness to wrangle them into the coop for the evening.
“Those were so loud and busy and we had leftovers for weeks.”
“I know. This is one of my favorites.”