A First Thanksgiving Without My Dad
I’ve never been one for enormous Thanksgivings. It’s not that I don’t like an extended-family holiday — in general, I do — but to me, Thanksgiving is different. To me, Thanksgiving is for my dad and me…
My parents divorced when I was two, and I grew up splitting holidays between them. Christmas was always in New York, with my mom and grandparents and a heap of cousins — all of us in tights and shiny shoes, giggling through a formal lunch until the grown-ups finally let us loose on the tree. It was fun and dressy, and I loved it.
Thanksgiving, in many ways, was the opposite: just my dad and me, cobbling it together in his single-guy apartment on the outskirts of Washington, D.C. It was small and no-frills — and I loved it, too.
Together, we’d search the supermarket for the smallest turkey available (which would still be too big, but oh, well). We’d briefly discuss making stuffing from scratch (“We really ought to, right?”), then buy a big bag of the pre-made mix (“It’s actually very good!”). We’d steam a batch of brussels sprouts, which we both preferred over green beans. And every year we’d find a way to screw up the mashed potatoes. The worst, we agreed, was the time we replaced the butter with extra virgin olive oil.
We cooked in our socks with the radio playing, and when the food was ready we’d sit down at dad’s two-person dining table. We never said a formal grace, but my dad believed in giving thanks for all we had, especially each other. So, we’d look across the table — him smiling tenderly, and me with a smirk — and he’d say thank you for both of us. For the food we had, for all the wonderful things happening in our lives (“Kelsey getting her own song in the musical.” “Kelsey starting college.” “Kelsey’s new apartment and her new job, with benefits!”), and for this time we had together. We’d say “amen” and eat, and then we’d find a movie on TV.
I never chimed in to add any thanks of my own to my dad’s informal prayer. But I think he knew how glad I was to be there with him — to be his beloved only child, the other half of our small family. I never once wished for a bigger, more festive holiday. I loved our tiny traditions and shared jokes and funny memories. When I was in college, my dad moved in with his partner, Cindy — a Thanksgiving pro, who could cook the whole feast singlehandedly (though we did help, I promise). A decade later, I met and married my husband, Harry. And while our Thanksgiving table got a bit bigger, our traditions remained: the socked feet, the radio, my dad’s big smile as he looked at me and shared his list of thanks. “Most of all, I’m thankful to have such a wonderful daughter,” he’d always finish, in spite of my rolling eyes. “Well, I do, Kels.”
As the years passed and my own life grew bigger, Thanksgiving still felt like my dad’s holiday. Even if we only spoke on the phone, he always told me how thankful he was to have such a wonderful daughter. “And an incredible granddaughter,” he added after my daughter Margot was born. “I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve it.”
We planned to spend Thanksgiving 2024 together, in Maryland, where he and Cindy had moved a few years before. Harry and I sorted out travel plans and told dad and Cindy we’d bring the pies. Then, a month before the holiday, my dad was diagnosed with advanced lung cancer. I still planned to go down for Thanksgiving — of course, I would. But in the end, dad said he just wasn’t up for it. He tried to make it festive from afar. If you’d send me the name of a restaurant nearby, I’d like to order you all a Thanksgiving feast! he wrote in a text — conversation was tiring by then. All the trimmings! I told him I appreciated it, but not to worry about us. We’d be just fine, we’d been invited over by friends, and we would have a delicious, cozy Thanksgiving. It wasn’t a lie, but of course, it wasn’t the whole truth. The whole truth was a screaming, desperate grief so enormous that I thought it might split me in half if I opened my mouth and gave it a voice.
My dad started hospice the week after Thanksgiving. We visited. Margot chatted with him and performed the latest songs she’d learned at school, and he watched and nodded with the same sincere, attentive focus that he’d given to her every word and gesture since the moment he first held her. She hugged him and hugged him, and said goodbye. It seemed strange to do so when he was still very much himself — thinner and tired, but not “actively dying” as the hospice nurse put it. It was her gentle suggestion that if Margot were to have a final visit with him, it might be best to do so before that stage arrived. While he could still talk and listen and share the goofy little inside jokes they had together. It seemed so wretchedly unfair that she would get just five short years to share those jokes and songs with him — this man who loved with such steadfast, patient gentleness. The one who would answer the phone at 7 a.m. if she wanted to chat. The one who remembered the lyrics to all the songs she made up. The one whose hand she reached for whenever it was there to hold, and the one who always, always held hers back. Watching them, I wished, so much, that she could have as much time with him as I had. And I felt so grateful for the time she did have with him. This is what I’m thankful for. This, this, this.
My dad died less than three months later, in early February. The rest of this year has passed in fits and starts. These days, I have patches of relatively normalcy followed by long stretches of staggering grief. I’m brushing my teeth and going to work and all that, but I wouldn’t say I have my feet back under me. If anything, I’ve gotten more wobbly since the season shifted into fall and I ride out all these strange first anniversaries: the day he called to tell me; the day he started hospice; the day that Margot asked him for the last time, “Can I sing you a song?”
But Thanksgiving is still my dad’s holiday. So, last month, I called Cindy and asked if we might come spend it with her. “We don’t need to do the meal or anything,” I told her. “We can order pizza. We can just hang out and, y’know, figure it out.” In the fog of grief, I didn’t even know what I was asking for exactly, but she seemed to understand somehow, perhaps because she’s caught in the same fog. So this Thanksgiving, I’ll get in the car and drive my family to Maryland, so we can all figure it out. I don’t know what the holiday will look like this year, or any year from here on out. But I know we’ll cobble it together, one way or another, just like we always did. And when we sit down to our Thanksgiving pizza, I will look at my daughter and tell her that of all the things I’m thankful for, I’m most thankful for her. And so was her grandfather.
P.S. How to write a condolence note, and rituals to help yourself through grief.
Tags: personal essay
Comments
91 commentsNow that I am a parent now, myself, I have become more aware of my own parents and the fact that my daughter will outlive them. So strange to consider your loved ones expiration date. My dad had advanced cancer when I was a child, and miraculously lived to tell the tale. But during the process, the loss of him did cross my mind, and I almost felt like I learned to pre-grieve, as if that will someday help ease the pain of when it does happen. He’s well, but is now divorced, and doesn’t take as good of care of himself as he should. I have a twin sister, but he always aims to treat us equally, and we both feel closeness to him in our own ways. Now, he absolutely adores being a grandfather, if not more than he adores being our father. It’s a treat to see the two of them interact and I imagine it mirroring him with my sister and I when we were little.
My mom died on Friday after an extremely short hospice stay. We had made plans to do a Thanksgiving themed brunch because mornings were easier for her. I don’t understand how to get through the day. Thank you for writing this.
And now I’m crying. As the only child of divorced parents who will also be spending my first Thanksgiving without my dad this year, I can relate to so much in this piece. I’ll be spending the day with my husband, son, and mom and will be trying (in vain likely) to make a pumpkin pie as good as he would. Thank you for creating a spot for me and all of the other grievers to feel seen. Sending some light your way this season.
Exquisitely written. I, like most others here, am sitting in tears after reading it. How lucky Kelsey was to have such a wonderful, loving, thoughtful and attentive dad.
Beautiful. I also the only child of divorced parents, and getting similar one on one time with my dad has been a huge part of my life. I feel like we have a special bond that I wouldn’t trade for anything. He is still with us so this is a reminder to me to cherish this time. Sending you hugs.
Wow. Tears. Such beautiful writing. I lost my Dad twenty years ago and he never met my daughter.
Oh that was so beautiful. My eyes are full of tears. Wishing you a peaceful and warm Thanksgiving, whatever that looks like this year.
Welp, Im here in a Starbucks supposedly to work, but crying my eyes out reading this. What you had and still have with your Dad is so precious.
Thank you for this. Please know that at least one person read it at exactly the right moment in their own grief.
Thinking of you. ❤️
Make that two. Shitty club to be in, but it’s nice not to be alone.
This was a truly beautiful read. Your dad sounded like such a present loving connected parent and I can only imagine the grief you’re navigating. Thanks for sharing a bit about him (or really the core essence of him) with us. Thinking of you as you navigate this thanksgiving.
I’ll be in Maryland marking my second Thanksgiving without my dad. He delighted in how much my boys enjoyed the turkey noodle soup he’d make with the leftovers – delighted in all their joys – and I carefully peeled and saved the label in his handwriting from the last canister he ever made for them, one of a hundred mementos of his love.
What a beautiful memory. It’s my first Thanksgiving without my dad, and I’ve been collecting artifacts of my own to buoy me through the season. Sending some light your way.
The mundane can become so dear!
Dear Gillian, This, exactly, is what I saved too. A spice jar with my dad’s writing on the label. It’s sitting empty for a while but I don’t want to wash it for fear of washing away my dad’s writing and the love with which he prepared the spice blend for us. Sending you and all who are grieving some comfort this holiday season. May we all glow in the warmth of our loved ones.
My dad passed away this past December and all the markers of time have been so tough, particularly my first birthday without him- his was just a few days before mine and we always celebrated together. I’m dreading the holidays as it will be one year. Your dad sounds like such an incredible person and father, I felt the depth of your loss in your beautiful writing. Sending love to you and your family and keeping all who are grieving in my heart this holiday season.
What an incredibly beautiful tribute to your father. Thank you for sharing; our society does not talk enough about grief and the daily pains it entails. My sweet two-year-old boy, Luca, died suddenly on May 31st. My heart breaks over and over again, its hard to breathe. https://www.lucawcapece.com
Thank you for sharing Luca’s story. What a beautiful boy. Today, may your grief be streaked with hope.
I can’t stop looking at the pictures of your beautiful baby boy. My heart breaks for your loss. Thank you for sharing.
I want to thank you for sharing Luca’s story. It touched me deeply. I could feel your boundless, fierce love for your boy burning through the pages. What an incredible gift he will always be.
Luca was so beautiful and you seem like the most loving parents. Heartbroken for you!
Melissa, it feels hard for me to breathe after reading your story and learning about your beautiful precious boy, Luca. What a smile! What a joyful spirit! I can’t imagine your heartbreak. There are truly no words. I hope you are surrounded by so much love, so much support, so much care and tenderness each and every day as you learn how to navigate this world without your sweet boy. I am so sorry.
Melissa, I am sending you and your family so much love. The death of a child is so devastating. I can tell Luca was a huge light in the world and reading his story keeps his light shining.
My mother in law was diagnosed with lung cancer last year and passed away later in the year, right before the holidays. I so keenly feel what you wrote about your daughter only have 5 years of memories- I look at my children and think how MUCH she would have loved to see them growing, learning, thriving. The pain of it takes my breath away sometimes. Thank you for sharing th.s, and from one fog of grief to another, I hope the holidays are ok
A year ago, my life was largely untouched by divorce or parental loss. Today, I read this beautiful essay and grieve the loss of my Dad in June of cancer and also the ending of my marriage in April. It has been a year of the lowest lows and I relate to the feeling of having to return to normalcy even though it is only a mask you wear to contain the raw feelings inside. For me, Christmas will be a difficult time although my two sons deserve the best that I can give them.
Thank you for this Kelsey. You and your dad sound really wonderful. He passed onto you it seems. :) It’s evident he loves you very much. I always feel at odds because the holidays bring such a mix of emotions for me (grief and disappointment amidst the joys). It was comforting to read I’m not alone.
I see you. We all fam in the clurb <3 https://cupofjo.com/2022/10/03/emma-straub-dad-loss-grief/
Thank you for sharing your wonderful father with us. I’m so sorry for your loss and for the big hole he’s left in your family. But I’m so happy you knew a love so big as the one he gave you. Wishing you tenderness and togetherness this Thanksgiving. Sending love and hugs from a stranger.
Oh, what a beautiful tribute to your wonderful dad! This reminds me not of my own dad – who was great when we were very little but then became very complicated and mostly absent – but of my beloved grandfather, who died fairly suddenly in 2008, just a few days before Channuka. He loved any time the family got together, and holidays in particular, and he was just so much fun, a real entertainer, and so joyful – it felt totally surreal to be sitting shiva for him instead of celebrating with him there that first year, and it also weirdly felt like he had just gone to another room to get something and would be right back. For a few years after that holidays in general and Channuka in particular felt impossible, but it did slowly get easier, and the joy returned and he is remembered so fondly. My husband and I knew that if we were able to have kids we would name our first baby after him, and fourteen years after he died our son was born, during Channuka. Over the last seventeen years it went from feeling like the holidays were overshadowed by grief, to having this time every year where we remember him especially fondly. So many things remind me of him that I think about him all the time and this time of year is just one of those, but I realized reading this post that the timing that felt so horrible at the beginning, now actually gives space every year for my husband and our kids to also remember him and how delighted he would be by our being together during the holidays. I know not all grief follows the same path and it may never stop being hard for you, but maybe for Margot cooking in her socks and making a perfectly-imperfect Thanksgiving dinner will be a way of honouring and remembering her grandpa, a way to keep him with her ❤️
This is beautifully written. Thank you for sharing. I miss my dad.
My own grandfather passed this September. Reading your story was such a gift. With the holidays upon us, I feel a burning in my throat and the opening of my heart. The time for us to feel our grief and love more deeply than ever is almost here.
thank you for sharing this.
I didn’t tear up reading this. I wept. I wept and wept. My parents are not split up, but me and my ex husband are. So I imagined my young girls writing this, as they navigate split holidays, sitting across the table from their father. He probably would not know how to do the whole feast, but he would make it special for them, in his own way, in his little three bedroom rental, that he has carefully outfitted with cozy bedrooms and full closets for his two most favorite girls. He is, admittedly, a committed father even though not a committed partner to me. I grieve our little family but this reminds me that my children CAN still be a family with him, even without me.
Greta, this moved me so deeply — what a profoundly beautiful perspective. Your family is so clearly filled with love, and ultimately that is what makes a good holiday (a good home, a good family). I love when I get the chance to share my Thanksgiving stories with divorced parents, because they really could not have been happier holidays for me. There’s so much grief and complicated changes with divorce, but there can also be joy and connection. I hope you all get plenty of that this holiday season. xoxo
♥︎
I teared up reading this. Wishing you a peaceful and memorable thanksgiving.
This made me weep. Early in the morning, breakfast in a bowl, tears on my cheeks. What a wonderful father. What a wonderful daughter. And you too, now a wonderful parent. Precious Margot, how lucky she is to have such a family.
This is so tender and such a beautiful way to memorialize your dad. Wishing you a very happy Thanksgiving.
I am so sorry for your loss, Kelsey. Thank you for sharing this beautiful and great love story with us.
What a wonderful remembrance of your dad. You can tell how deep your bond was. Thank you for sharing your story. I wish you and your family peace this holiday.
Thank you for sharing this. This will be my first Thanksgiving without my father. Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday, but it will be a little sad this year.
My mom was the glue that held our family (and Thanksgiving dinners!) together. She passed in 2016 and it is still not the same, though I am trying to carry the torch. It’s harder some days/years than others. For anyone going through grief this season, I hope you find some glimmers of happiness and new traditions to remember those who have gone before us.
Kelsey, your dad will live on in your daughter. Keep looking for those little glimmers and keep those memories alive by talking about him, what he used to say, do and enjoy. Thinking of you all.xx
What a beautiful tribute to your loving father.
Wow, this is so moving and a testament to true, unwavering commitment and love. Thank you for sharing!
I loved this. I lost both of my parents and it’s heartening to see grief being acknowledged and discussed, especially as we enter holiday season.
Thank you for this. As someone who is now navigating shared holidays with my co-parent for the first time, it’s all new and wobbly feeling and strange. I hope I can emulate your Dad and give my son special, wonderful holidays to look back on.
Yes, I AM crying at work, why do you ask? (Sniff!) That was exquisite and heart-rending, Kelsey. Thank you for the beauty of your words. Your dad sounds like the most wonderful man. When I read that he said, “I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve [you and your daughter],” a sob almost escaped my throat. I’m glad you got the tapestry of your dad’s love through the years and all of those special radio-playing, socked-feet Thanksgivings that were your own.
Oh Kelsey. I was raised by a single father and every word of this piece made my heart ache. I cannot fathom that one day I’ll have to live on this earth without him. My deepest, most heartfelt condolences to you.
A gorgeous tribute to your dad. My dad was an awful one — manipulative, dishonest, self serving, and mostly absent. Reading your piece about your dad is a beautiful reminder that there are amazing dads out there. Despite the grief you carry in his absence, as you touched on, you are so blessed to have had such a loving dad. Hope this thanksgiving and the ones to come for you and your family are filled with joy and his memory.
Adding a me too on my fourth Thanksgiving since my dad’s passing. He passed on Nov. 23, the Tuesday before Thanksgiving, This time of the year is especially hard, as I know you all know. This piece made me cry and feel less alone. Holidays are tough without special loved ones.
How beautiful. Thank you.
I lost my mom (and grandma to my two children) just over 2 weeks ago to advanced cancer and still can’t say “Christmas” without choking up. I was hesitant to read this but it was really beautiful. And the comments offer a comforting reminder of all of the other people out there also navigating a changed holiday season and trying to find bits of joy.
I’m sorry for your loss. I’m sitting here next to my mum’s bed, she has only a few days left. My brain can’t comprehend that this is it but my heart is quietly breaking. My mum loves Christmas and has always made such a huge effort in making it wonderful and memorable. This Christmas I will continue her traditions. Thank you for making me feel less lonely.
MK, my heart is with you. I was in your place two years ago and I pray for peace and comfort for you. I know I read this quote here on Cup of Jo- “The ability to see the end of what you hold dear turns out to be the mothership of holding it dear”- S. Jenkinson Huge hug to you! But also, I assure you, this is not the end of your relationship with your mom! Just her journey here on earth.
Oh MK…sending you so much love. Hoping for peace and comfort for us both as we head towards Christmas with our broken hearts.
I lost my oldest and dearest friend this summer. I guess I didn’t lose him. He died. You capture the scariness, the physical pain of grief so well. I know we all feel our grief in unique ways, but I e been almost embarrassed by how sad I feel, and how acutely painful this grief is. I both want to grip it tightly and to erase it (and myself?) altogether. This beautiful essay is such a beacon, and I’ll raise a glass to your dad and his girls this holiday season. Thank you, Kelsey.
Needed this one tonight. Thanks for sharing, Kelsey. It’s an impossible grief, but somehow, some way, we go forward.
What a beautiful piece. My mom died in May and this will be the first thanksgiving without her as well. The holidays are going to be little more intense this year and I imagine the years to come. Thank you for writing this, Kelsey
Thank you for these words ❤️
I knew this would touch me today.. A special week remembering my own dad. Thanksgiving is my favorite day and now.. without my husband as well. I have sweet memories that I will treasure missing them both. I miss them.
This is a stunning essay. Thank you.
What a Blessing you had to have such a wonderful loving relationship with your father, cherish those memories forever and carry them on with your daughter. Having family is so important anymore and needs to be treasured. Thank you for sharing this with us.
Thank you for sharing such a heartfelt essay. Your dad was lucky to have you.
It really touched me that you’re going to spend the holiday with Cindy – what a tribute to the love you feel for your father, to want to be with his partner who loved him to share your stories and sorrow and the legacy of love he leaves.
This made me sob my heart out. Thank you.
My dad and I have the same birthday (November 24th) – and I was born on Thanksgiving Day. We are exactly 30 years apart so all of our milestone birthdays are the same as well! He is still alive… But this beautiful essay wrecked me especially knowing that after he is gone Thanksgiving’s are going to be extra rough. He always says I’m the best birthday present he ever received. How cute is that :) I love my dad, and this was a lovely, gentle reminder that I will need to do to something extra special to honor him on our birthdays once he has passed.
What a beautiful tribute to your dad and the love you shared. My mom died 7 years ago last January, and my dad’s in hospice now. I wept in recognition of your feelings — the holidays are especially unpredictable, and I remember weeping at a Christmas service, completely undone by Joy to the World, of all things. Grief has no timeline and is utterly unpredictable. I hope all of you are able to be gentle with yourselves as you navigate it.
I am overwhelmed with how beautifully vulnerable you were in sharing the details of your father and your traditions with each other and love for each other. It sounds like all of it will continue to live on…with your most wonderful daughter.
This is so tender and beautiful, and, gosh, how it resonates right now… My dad died two weeks ago, and today is my birthday. Not getting his “happy birthday” call and card in the mail, the envelope addressed in his distinct handwriting, has been tough — on top of the grief that is still so new and raw. Reading your story and so many touching comments makes me feel a little less alone in all of it. Thank you for sharing.
Linda, oh my gosh, I’m so sorry. This hit me so hard. My dad died a week before my birthday, and I had those exact thoughts — the phone call, the handwriting on the card. So utterly surreal. I’m thinking of you, and please know that you are absolutely not alone. ❤️
I almost missed daylight savings this year. Then I remembered that it was because my Dad used to always phone me the night before to remind me to turn the clocks back (or forward). He died a bit more than a year ago and I didn’t realize how much those daylight savings reminders were in fact a reminder of his care and love for me until they stopped coming altogether. Sometimes I forget for a moment that he is gone as there are still things that happen in my life that he is the only person it makes sense to tell. We keep the people we love in our hearts and they live on in our memories. Treat yourself with care and kindness as you find your way through the grief.
Oh. How lucky you were. And also, how eternally unfair. That the people we love have to go. How we are never ready. How holidays amplify that. . This was beautiful. Thank you. I have a feeling that you will eat that pizza with your whole heart.
This. Exactly this. Beautiful.
What a tremendously beautiful essay, Kelsey. And thank you, Megan for composing a response that expresses how I felt after reading it — though much more eloquently than anything I would have written
My (then-tiny) kids lost their wonderful grandfather 14 years ago during Thanksgiving week. My hardest grief is for how proud he would have been to be at all their special moments since, and how much they have missed having him there. The grief is huge because his love for us was so enormous. We are so grateful to have been loved by him, but it hurts because of how much we lost. Thank you for sharing this beautiful essay — I’m crying but also feeling less alone in the sorrow.
Your dad sounds like a wonderful, wonderful father. My hope for you is to see a lot of glimmers of him this holiday season… I know you will.
Thank you for this beautiful piece, Kelsey.
I feel your pain, and I think you are doing just the right thing this year. I pray that you are a comfort to Cindy and she to you. I pray that Margot does ok. You might not be to the point of sharing funny stories yet, but it will come. I lost my Dad almost 7 years ago and his words come out of my mouth daily.
This brings tears to my eyes. My Dad died 52 years ago tomorrow from cancer. I was in college at the time. Our neighbors invited us for dinner. My dad cooked Thanksgiving dinner and I think of him every Thanksgiving. My heart goes out to you.
I am so grateful you wrote this beautiful essay, even as I sob over my office desk. Thank you for sharing the love you had with your dad with all of us.
Thank you so much for this essay. My Mom died 3 years ago, just a few days before Thanksgiving. In some ways it has gotten easier, and in other ways, it never will. I try my hardest to keep her alive in my life by loving people- my siblings, my child, my friends, and even myself- the way she loved us all. I miss her every day and I am still coming to grips with how painful it was to lose her at a relatively young age to a terrible neurodegenerative illness. And still I’m deeply aware of how lucky I was, for any amount of time, to have a parent who loved me so unconditionally. It sounds like your beloved father was the same way, Kelsey. I’m so sorry you lost him. And every time you look at others with love- your daughter, your family, your friends, and above all, yourself- you will be keeping his beautiful legacy alive.
Kelsey, what a beautiful love letter to the relationship with your dad. Having such immense love leads to immense grief. Praying that you will gain comfort in your memories. Thank you for being so vulnerable
Here’s a clip from Andrea Gibson’s documentary on AppleTV. SO PROFOUNDLY BEAUTIFUL. May it serve as a gentle loving balm to those navigating so much: https://www.instagram.com/reel/DRKX-jWEc0R/?igsh=NTc4MTIwNjQ2YQ==. “Everyt hing that you are feeling, name it love.” Andrea Gibson Kelsey, thank you for sharing your dad with all of us in this beautiful tribute. So so much love to you ❤️🫶🏽
Oh goodness, Kelsey. I’m 7 years into a lifetime of grieving the loss of my wonderful dad and my daughters’ grampy and I felt this deep in my bones. So beautiful – the piece, and your eternal relationship that you will continue to have with your dad.
I cried in the trader joes the first thanksgiving after my dad died… it was the first time in my 55 years on the planet that I bought the turkey for the holiday dinner- mind you I have made a gazillion dinners and turkeys and thrown epic dinner parties…. but this was a first for me. One of the staff must have noticed a red faced slightly snotty middle aged gal paused by the big birds in the cooling section…. and just quietly and kindly walked over with a beautiful bunch of orange tulips and said to me…. its on the house, you look like you could use a kindness…. at the risk of being a cliche…. its the little things baby…. just the little things that heal big hurts and remind us that we are seen
Lou, I know this isn’t the point of your comment but it’s gotta be a Trader Joe’s thing. 10 or so years ago I was crying in Trader Joe’s a few days before Thanksgiving because my dad and I had just had an argument over the phone about meal plans and an employee also gave me flowers. TJ’s forever!
Lou, this is so beautiful. I’m sure you’ve already had this thought, but I have a (deeply intuitive) feeling that those flowers were from your dad <3
I’m sure I’m not on the only one on the Orange line openly crying reading this beautiful essay. I have all three of my parents (divorced and 1 remarried) but parts of this were so visceral I started welling up. My dad visits every couple of weeks on Sunday mornings with bagels and Lebanese food from 730-830. He loves to watch my kids play. My mom on the other hand is around all the time and basically my kids third parent. While so different I really treasure those quiet moments and the special relationship they are forming with my dad.
I can picture it all and “kind of” feel like I know your family now. Gentle blessings to you as you gather and remember.