My car drove right past the unmarked street. I circled around, not knowing where Raccoon Run was. The street name was odd, but the surrounding houses made you forget that because they were beautiful. Each one overlooked the water.
The car slowed down on the sea shell drive way, making a crackling sound. I exited the vehicle and slowly walked up the brick path. The quaint small house was painted in windows and stared back at me. I knocked on the glass door.
Patricia, a nice blonde woman that looked younger than she was, opened the door.
“Teddy,” she exclaimed, hugging me.
After an affectionate hug, I entered the house. Not knowing who I was about to see, a tall man with an long beard and salt-and-pepper man-bun turned the corner.
“Oh, hi. I’m Tom,” he said to me.
A stranger at Thanksgiving dinner. Not a common thing everyone gets to enjoy. I introduced myself, in a baffled manner.
A plush cushion on a white wicker chair called my name. As I walked over to it, an older woman sat down.
Before searching for another spot to sit, my cousins greeted me. We conversed about school, work, and other life aspects until Patricia called out to inform us it was time for dinner.
“Mom, I made you a plate. It’s in the dining room,” Pat said.
Mom? What? After a minute of thinking, I realized the old woman was Patricia’s mother. As the woman walked slowly over to the dining room, Tom followed her holding a cane.
“Mom, you forgot your cane,” Tom said.
She did not respond.
Tom repeated himself, louder this time. He addressed the woman by her first name, “June.”
“June,” I said under my breath. I haven’t seen this woman in about ten years.
Finally the puzzle pieces were coming together. Pat’s family had joined us for dinner. With no more confusion, I walked over to the kitchen to make a plate of food. The cold slate tiled floors cooled my feet as I scooped different foods onto my dish. The sweet potatoes dripped in a caramel sauce as it hit my plate. The corn jumped over to greet the mashed potatoes. The asparagus laid dominant on my plate. And the cranberry sauce sat in the puddle it created.
After a quick prayer the 13 family members who were present began to eat. The melody of tastes bounced inside my mouth. Everything was cooked to perfection. Everyone was enjoying there food until…her hands went up.
Her face became red and her hands surrounded her neck like someone was choking her from behind. It was June. She was choking on her food, coughing, trying to get it out. Pat walked her mother into the kitchen.
As I stared at my plate, I heard a faint coughing in the kitchen. A minute passed. Tom joined Pat and June in the kitchen. My concern for June started to turn into fear. The dinner table turned silent. My grandmother, 91-year-old Molly Carbone, is hard of hearing. Not knowing what was going on, she questioned why the table had become quiet. No one answered.
After a minute of silence, June, Pat, and Tom all walked back in. The table had a sigh of relief. 94-year-old June was okay.
“The food went down the wrong way,” she said.
Something so simple that happens on a daily basis caused the entire family to come together. We were thankful for our health and June’s well-being.
Thanksgiving continued without a flaw. Thanksgiving teaches people what people need to truly be thankful for; each other’s health and well-being.
