Thanksgiving Day Encounter
I pulled the curtains back just enough to watch cars park.
People up and down the street were getting loads of visitors complete with
casseroles, deserts and drinks. Parking
spaces were at a premium and some were being forced to park on neighboring
blocks and trek to their destinations; no one seemed to consider this as undo
punishment. Not a frown anywhere to be seen; just smiles and out and out laughter.
I let the curtains fall back into place and turned my back
so the tears could roll freely. As if anyone would notice. My house was empty
and dark, parallel with the ache in my soul, even though it was only noon. My
car was tucked away in the garage so friends wouldn’t feel sorry for me and
offer me an obligatory meal. I didn’t care for pity, except for maybe self-pity.
Thanksgiving Day alone. Again. You’d think my kids would
bury the hatchet and make up. My son wouldn’t come if my daughter did and vice
versa. How can a mother choose between her off spring? Actually if they got
together I feared they really would bury the hatchet. Hard core hate had been
boiling between them for years.
Misunderstandings can be fatal. I never listen to either side of the
story anymore, I don’t want to be involved or accused of taking sides.
Sitting in my lazy boy I poured another glass of wine. Wine
and tuna sandwiches, that was my menu today. Why cook for a holiday I had no empathy
with? What did I have to be thankful for today? Don’t give me that bull about
being alive. Sometimes that’s actually no comfort, just banal sentiment that
can be easily reversed.
Oh, dear. I’m almost out of wine. I couldn’t survive today
without spirits. Off I headed to the nearby convenience store. In back, where I parked, three men were
filling up water jugs from a hydrant. They appeared tired and worn out, in need
of some refreshing. They were the age of my kids, mid-thirties or so. They were
still in the parking lot after I purchased my wine.
I carefully got into my car, slightlyafraid of being ambushed
by the three vagrants, at the same time
hoping to be ambushed, after all maybe physical pain would remove my emotional agony. Then out of nowhere someone asked, “Do you guys need a good home cooked
meal?” I looked around to see who had said that, and was shocked to learn it
was me. The three men hefted their back packs and eagerly climbed into my Sedan,
gratefully accepting my kindness without hesitation. Introductions were proffered and handshakes
passed out by Joshua, Pete and Juan.
At home I was embarrassed to have nothing elaborate to offer
them. Remember, I was eating a tuna sandwich by myself on Thanksgiving Day. My embarrassment was combined with
embarrassment that I was embarrassed for having nothing good to eat for men
that shopped from garbage cans (you can only understand that If you are as
slightly inebriated as I am).. A can of beans and rice would be a gourmet meal
if served on plates with real silverware and a beverage in a glass. I
apologized for not having the usual over indulgent Thanksgiving meal and
whipped up something only a mother could do at the last moment. My guests were
profusely appreciative as they helped where they could. And between
preparations they individually showered and shaved in the guest room, cleaning
up after themselves. More than my own kids did. The bathroom actually looked
fresher after they were done than before they started. Cleaned up, they were nice looking young men,
and smart. I couldn’t understand why they were homeless. They explained it was
their calling to roam the country looking for people to help. This definitely
took me by surprise. Who was helping who here?
They were smart but slightly mixed up.
I was back in my lounger, next to my forgotten tuna
sandwich, alone again, when the door chimes ruptured my reverie. Without
waiting for me to answer my son and daughter broke through the entrance arm in
arm, followed by their families and—tons of food. Really, I couldn’t eat another bite. I reached for my wine glass and quickly
downed the last drops.
“You guys aren’t here to draw me into your absurd squabble,
again are you?” I blustered out, fearing a repeat horrible family feud on my
terrain. A premonition out of place with the gleeful expressions on their
countenances and the banquet they were carting in.
“No, we were worried about you, we tried to call several
times and when no one answered we got together and decided our fight was silly
and we agreed to disagree. We didn’t want you to be alone on Thanksgiving so we
combined our menus and ……Walla!”
Once again tears rolled down my soggy cheeks. It was then I
noticed the time on the grandfather clock by the door; and the sunshine that
poured in the window around the closed curtains. I’ve only been in this chair for twenty
minutes. My sandwich was still refrigerator cool. I must have dreamed the whole
afternoon’s activities. I roamed through
the house in shock. Nothing had changed; no dishes in the dishwasher from the
meal I thought I had served hours ago, no discarded food cans, and no towels in
the laundry from recent bathers. I had never gone anywhere, never had any
visitors. It had seemed so real. It had to have been real, but lacking evidence
I had to assume it had been nothing but a very, very remarkable dream, or the
beginning of mental instability.
As my kids laid the dining room table with the lavish spread
of edibles I answered the phone; since it was ringing that seemed the
appropriate thing to do.
“Mrs. Watson, you left your wallet here. I tried to flag you
down before you drove off with those three bums. I was afraid they had
carjacked you, I was about to call the police.” It was the convenience store
manager. I heard my kids gasp just before
I collapsed on the floor, the phone receiver at my side; “Mrs. Watson? Mrs.Watson?” emanating from the speaker.
Outside Joshua, Pete and Juan who had returned to sneak a
peak in the window, smiled contently, joined hands and ascended upwards.
psalm 68:6
Mathew 26:36-40
Hebrews 13:1-2
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