My neighbor offered her oxtail to us. And my lasagna’s, one without ricotta, sit in their trays for cooling. My roommate has made the turkey so juicy, we can’t even flip it, it falls right off the bone.
And there is a silence, broken by the fan’s monotonous whisp, and the heater’s crackle. They argue with one another, wanting to claim the same space.
We will open our doors in hours time, before then, my little brother will curb his cab to this building, and look up to find me waving. “Coming down in a sec”, except this year, it will be a text, instead of a hand, his eyes averting downward.
Last year, for Thanksgiving, I had the entire family at my apartment. Aunts and cousins and mother and father. Then at night, queer friends and new lovers. Everyone here, and plentiful. I had to make it so, a happy year, where all they had to do was show up, and eat, and smile, and be in love with the food and each other.
This year, I assumed we would do it here again. My checking account was prepared to extract the $550 it would take to feed multiple families. But somehow, it was extracted, this honor of serving. Although the message was to relieve me, I felt somehow, demoted.
“Are you making a lasagna?” I texted my aunt last night, 11:30pm.
“Ok, I am bringing a lasagna” I texted my aunt this morning, 11:30am.
And so, in my 28th year, the passage of time is real.
We slowly take on our new roles. We fit where we can.
Let’s not force it.
Instead, cheers, to your turkey day. May it be easy and true.
“Ok. Cool.” She just responded.