Most of my Thanksgivings as an adult have been away from home; some motley crew assembled by one friend or another, a college cafeteria full of international exchange students, a boyfriend’s family with their baby chickens running in the yard. I love my family and I miss them, but I’ve come to feel that there’s something about being the Stranger that makes the spirit of Thanksgiving feel all the more potent. To usher one another in, to be ushered in; to receive, and to give, as family. (With who, again? “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch it the first time; what was your name?”)
We set a table with stolen linens in someone’s sister’s dining room to make it feel like home. On the television, the football game played. “Do you like sports?” the guy sitting on the couch asked. “I like the way they sound,” I said, drawing my feet into my chest like a kid. “Like my grandparents’ house after they tucked us in.”
“Glass of wine or vodka?” Marie asked.
“Woo hoo!” everyone replied.
Full album of Thanksgiving with Kent and Marie and friends: here.