7 - first snowfall

Reflecting on a childhood thanksgiving dinner with the family.

With four smoke-stained cream walls staring me down from the shadows, I sat on the thin basement carpet and basked in the cold light of a static-plagued black and white television. I itched at the collar of my dress shirt. The other handful of kids populating the scratchy carpet occasionally made similar efforts, all of us dressed in our uncomfortable Sunday best. The bitter autumn wind pressed its hungry mouth up to the single tiny window and let out a slow breath. The rattling was audible, even above the din of adults laughing and clinking glasses upstairs. I’ve never seen a house as deep into the woods as my Grandmother’s. It always takes us half an hour to slowly work our way over the bumpy dirt roads. I always enjoyed the trip back out. Long after the sun has set, the car rocked me to sleep, the bright headlights illuminating the forest before us, the gentle hum of the portable cassette player in my lap.

One of our mothers called us from atop the stairs. Dinner was ready. My eldest cousin hopped up off of her stomach and twisted the volume knob on the television until it clicked off. A Walk to Remember popped into black silence, and the basement was suddenly altogether too dark. With the uneven pattering of a dozen little feet nervously racing up the stairs, we reached the warm light of the hallway. Our parents were already circling around the table where the food was arranged, slapping down servings on their own large china plates.