Daily Writing - 12/28 - "The worst Thanksgiving dish you ever had"

Cranberry Apple Crisp

     It probably could have been a good Thanksgiving. The sun glinted off the peaks in the ocean and streamed through the wide windows. Gulls shrieked and the tide rolled and the smell of salt drifted through Aunt Tina's white gauzy curtains. None of us were that thrilled to be spending the holiday on the west coast, in the sun, in seventy-nine degree heat. Mom would have loved it, which made it that much worst. She was a west coast girl in a family of quick-paced, sharp-tongued Northeasterners.
     But the only thing less bearable then Tina's bright, Pinterest-y Thanksgiving spread would have been spending it at home, all cold and cozy and snowy, with Mom's favorite carols on the stereo and apple cider mulling on the stove.
     It was the first time we'd spent Thanksgiving as a family away from Williamsburg. I'd stay back at school a few times, spent awkwardly friendly Thanksgiving's with roommates or friends' families. But it was only days after the funeral and we were all in the same place still, left without a good reason to go home and pretend to celebrate in an emptier house.
      So we sat down and held hands and pretended to give thanks for the small blessings in a year of hell. And Tina, bless her, started the dish-passing with Mom's cranberry-apple crisp. Except, of course, it wasn't Mom's. I took a big helping out of habit, because I'd forgotten to be broken up for a moment, because it had always been my favorite part of Thanksgiving. And I'll never know how, but it tasted exactly like Mom's until it didn't, and it dissolved into sawdust and salt and snot. And I with it, gulping and gasping, shocked at the unwarranted torrents streaming over my cheeks and dripping off my chin.
     It passed quickly, like all the sudden bouts did, and I was left with the same emptiness that could never quite be contained or expressed. No one was very surprised, and we continued eating quietly. With each long second that passed, she moved further out of our memories and we grew closer to a strange kind of comfort that allowed us to bask in the awful pretense that would be our lives without her.