|Driveway 1 (2011)|
The drops fall and lift then settle on a grey rainy Monday. I venture not far and it doesn't take too long before I am no longer a stranger. Hey you, he says. It's you, I do my best impression of someone who is happy to see him. I find I am worse at polite conversation, unnecessary words come out as wasted energy but I tell myself, Your Mama taught you better, young lady.
I stand in line to buy seven cheeses from a computer. A lady turns to me and says she is cold. Is the store cold to you? she asks. I answer in the affirmative every way possible with a smile and a nod and a yes. Maybe it's just me, she says. Okay, I respond and wonder what I did wrong. Soon after I scan mature gouda, aged asiago, apple smoked provolone, two cheddars, some parmesan and my go to feta. Then I escape into a shiny black parking lot with mazes of cars and people where I hope to go unnoticed.
I watch a woman use butter with bits of truffle and sneer with envy. Damn food network, I think, they projected a thought and now I am considering my butter is substandard. If only my dish had the butter with bits of truffle in it then it would be the best and everyone would be so impressed and I would be the grand hero of Thanksgiving. After I left they would talk among themselves about how surely I would be okay and nothing could be wrong with the decisions I had made because did you taste that dish? who knew she was so talented? and yeah, she's brilliant. Then I think, Fuck the Contessa. My butter is just fine.
Two short bursts of phone calls later and I remember.
I remember that this week contains my favorite, most beloved, sweetest bear hug, rub your head and mess up your hair, sit and watch the rain as I wrap both my arms around your one and listen to nothing and everything and laugh and smile and say I love you and am so thankful for you holiday.
I know it's early but I can't help myself, Happy Thanksgiving.