The Last Thanksgiving

It was after lunch when we ventured outside. I sat on the swing soaking in the beauty of the day: the sounds of my children at play, the ringing of the horseshoes as they hit their mark, the laughter that accompanies relaxed conversation. Melodies of joy echoed all around me.

Spending Thanksgiving afternoon outside was something I hadn’t done since I was a kid, but the weather was so perfect it would have been criminal to stay inside. The air was crisp, and the breeze was a soft breath that lifted random strands of hair and gently replaced them. A reminder of how tame the wind could be.

That day was a first for us. It was the first time we’d ever spent part of a holiday outside as a family. It was a day I hoped would mark the beginning of a new family tradition. That this would be the first and the last holiday we would spend like this never crossed my mind. I was living in the moment, and the moment was good.

We were happy.

She was happy.

That’s what I remember most: the happiness. Unblemished by drama or intrusion. Unfettered by sharp words or tension. The happiness was pure, and it was genuine. Those moments were fleeting, but the feeling lives on in the memory.

Mom died the following year.

It is not the trauma or the sadness of her passing that I choose to remember. It is her last Thanksgiving that surfaces in my memory: the sound of her laughter, the sight of my children in her loving embrace, how happy she was as the sun’s rays filtered through the trees and bathed our humble gathering in its warm glow.

Each November, as the leaves drift from the trees that shed them, my thoughts drift back to that day filled with family. With love. With happiness. And in these thoughts I lose myself in the meaningful depths of Thanksgiving.