I thought I was going to get out of roasting a turkey this year. I had Thanksgiving dinner with one son and all the Rhodes family at Montgomery Bell State Park — a huge feast with every kind of dish you could want, including ambrosia and sweet potato casserole and coconut cake and . . . fried catfish?
But then the other son called and said his whole clan was coming. He recently remarried and claimed two more children, so they’re a family of six. That meant I was cooking for eight people all of a sudden, and I ran out and bought a 16-pound turkey.
When the five-hour cooking time was up — I was outside with the kids drawing pictures and hopscotch grids in pink and blue in the middle of the street — and Corey pulled the turkey out of the oven, let it cool, and carved it before I could even remember the rules for hopscotch. It went smoothly and easily.
I remembered that first Thanksgiving after Charlie died. You don’t realize it, but when you lose someone, there are layers of loss, and I lost the one who knew how to carve the turkey!
From the book Remember the Dragonflies: A Memoir of Grief and Healing:
Now, it was Thanksgiving morning at six thirty, and the turkey was in, all swathed in a mixture of orange juice, orange marmalade, Jack Daniels whiskey, and fresh garlic, with lots of rosemary sprinkled on top. And I thought of something. I had no clue how to carve a turkey. In four hours I would pull that fourteen-pounder out of the oven and stare it down.
In the past when it was time to carve, Charlie would pour himself a glass of wine, roll up his sleeves, sling up his arms, and tell everybody to get out of his way. He meant it, too. The whole family would disperse to the living room and give him plenty of space. Except the dog, of course. Chaeli sat by his right leg, in hopes a piece would fall to the floor. And Corey, who had entitlement to the kitchen at all times, stood at his right shoulder, crowding him, watching, waiting for some dark meat, giving unsolicited advice.
So if we were going to have slices of turkey with our dressing and sweet potatoes, Corey had to step up to the plate.
He did then. He does every year. Now it is routine. My life is ordered, and I know where and how to move.
What layers of loss have you experienced?
Remember the Dragonflies 