For me this Thanksgiving was not gravy and white meat. It was not quirky relatives and children running underfoot and the frosty, earthy smell of winter forthcoming on the air. It was not sitting in my sweats watching movies with loved ones and trying (unsuccessfully) to maintain my winning streak in Phase Ten.
Certainly all of these things occurred over Thanksgiving break, and the four days spent at home in Idaho Falls were filled with upside down pumpkin pie and christmas lights and laughter and moments shared with family. It was filled with hugs and tears and comfortable silences.
But what Thanksgiving really was for me this year was a reminder of the fragile brevity of this life; the swiftness with which the world cranks out another twenty four hours like a ferris wheel delivers its passengers gently around its cycle--offering in shifts a breathtaking view of the entire world spread out before you one moment, and your feet touching the cold ground the next, a little disoriented and unsure of where you should travel to first.
We visited my grandfather in the assisted living center he was placed in a few weeks ago, and the whole car ride there my stomach was in knots. Maybe it was because I had been reading The Notebook and images of Noah cradling his aged head in his hands and sobbing quietly while his wife slowly forgot every piece of her life were swirling in my head. Maybe it was because it was my first time seeing him since the reunion last summer and I wasn't sure how much he had changed. In any case it was with trepidation that I entered the building smelling of cinnamon and sterilization and clean laundry and followed my parents to a commons room full of cousins and aunts gathered around a solitary figure in a wheelchair.
I approached the chair and waited my turn, looking at the colored turkeys and empty puzzle boxes and magazines, my eyes avoiding the frail form I knew to be my grandfather. At last I stepped forward, took his small withered hand in mine, and looked into his deep rheumy eyes. "Hi Grandpa."
One second. Two seconds. Three. He didn't remember who I was. He could recognize me but didn't know why. I could feel tear-pressure building behind my eyes. And then..."Why hello beautiful!" he declared just as jovially as he did every year when we first walked through the door, arms open wide for a hug. In lieu of an embrace he squeezed my hand a little and looked me in the eyes. "Are you still playing my flute?" The ancient silver flute was a gift from him in my seventh grade year at school when I was starting band, almost as many years old as my father. Maybe older. I can still remember Grandpa playing it for me on one of our visits, the notes a whispered vibrato but still ringing pure and clean in the air. He wouldn't be able to lift it now.
"Yes. Yes I am" I smiled at him. I didn't have the heart nor the willpower to tell him that I haven't picked the instrument up since last spring at our jazz concert in Pocatello, being the only student who could play both the saxophone and the flute. He smiled back, and another relative stepped forward to greet him. "He looks so....small." I thought as I wandered away.
My grandfather has always been a mighty oak tree, the patriarch and head of our large family. To me he represents the sum total of honesty and courage and hard work that a lifetime can create. I never thought I would see him so...helpless.
I was relieved to see his stubbornness had not subsided with his weight and strength. He was able to come to dinner with the rest of us and insisted on making the traditional opening speech about families and being thankful, just as he has every year. I couldn't stop myself from wondering who would be giving those speeches in a few years when Grandpa couldn't.
Entering the dining hall, I scanned the room for a place to sit. My entire life I have had the unique experience of being a middle cousin. The majority of my relatives' children are older, married with children. As a college freshmen there is not much that I can relate to with them beyond a "how are you?" and "how's the family?" Then there are the younger cousins, all boys, who once held a grudging respect for my nintendo skills and ability to keep up with their fantastic games of the imagination. Now they have reached an age where, as a member of the opposite sex, I represent a foreign planet full of cooties and strange feelings and bizarre thoughts better left unexplored.
So I was relieved to see my sister's children had reserved me a place right between them. I spent the meal with an excited four year old waving his mashed potatoes and yelling "let the feast begin!" on one side, and an intelligent seven year old holding her pink lemonade like the finest wine glass and making a toast to anything and everything on the other.
Of all my roles in this lifetime, the role of aunt is the one I like best. I wouldn't trade seeing Tyler try his first olive, or watching Kayla protect her youngest brother Landon, or hearing Dainen shriek with laughter as I chase him around and around the living room for all the power and wealth in the world. The only regret I have when it comes to being an aunt is that I don't have the time that I want to spend with them. College prevents me from visiting them more than a few times a year, and they grow so FAST. First steps and sentences and performances and karate lessons can pass you by easily while you're studying for midterms seven hours away.
Sunday morning I awoke, dressed, and packed my things for the drive back "home" to Caldwell. I went to church for an hour to hear one of my good friends from high school give his farewell talk before heading to Portland Oregon for two years as a missionary. He looked the same for the most part, standing tall and nervously tapping the pulpit as he spoke, the words coming easily the longer he spoke. But when I looked at him again as he took his seat, I was startled to see he was somehow older in my eyes. He was embarking on a new and trying path, and I suppose everyone looks a little older when they make life-changing decisions.
I looked down the bench on either side of me. Young men and girls that I had grown up with, growing every day into the adults that I will meet later, with husbands and wives and children and grandchildren. How strange to think that I've gotten older too. Have I changed? At what age do you really become an adult? In my heart I am the same as I have always been. More mature now in my ability to be patient and dismiss things that might have hurt me years ago. But I still procrastinate. I still do my laundry only when I've run out of clothes to wear. I still stumble to class with my hair a mess and some caffeinated beverage to wake me long enough to take coherent notes before returning to my dorm to sleep. I still wish on stars and say a quick prayer when I hear ambulance sirens. I sometimes sleep with a stuffed bear clutched to my chest, and on some days I still feel so homesick I can't do anything but stare out the window and wish I could travel as easily as the leaves borne on the wind.
Days pass too quickly. A week goes by and I can't remember a single time I laughed out loud or tasted chocolate. Another week goes by and I can't remember a time when I DIDN'T have a reason to smile. At times I just want to shout the world into a standstill, halting the shifting sands of time for just one moment. I don't want to take a single second for granted.
