I’ve never been one for enormous Thanksgivings. It’s not that I don’t like an extended-family holiday — in general, I do — but to me, Thanksgiving is different. To me, Thanksgiving is for my dad and me…
My parents divorced when I was two, and I grew up splitting holidays between them. Christmas was always in New York, with my mom and grandparents and a heap of cousins — all of us in tights and shiny shoes, giggling through a formal lunch until the grown-ups finally let us loose on the tree. It was fun and dressy, and I loved it.
Thanksgiving, in many ways, was the opposite: just my dad and me, cobbling it together in his single-guy apartment on the outskirts of Washington, D.C. It was small and no-frills — and I loved it, too.
Together, we’d search the supermarket for the smallest turkey available (which would still be too big, but oh, well). We’d briefly discuss making stuffing from scratch (“We really ought to, right?”), then buy a big bag of the pre-made mix (“It’s actually very good!”). We’d steam a batch of brussels sprouts, which we both preferred over green beans. And every year we’d find a way to screw up the mashed potatoes. The worst, we agreed, was the time we replaced the butter with extra virgin olive oil.
We cooked in our socks with the radio playing, and when the food was ready we’d sit down at dad’s two-person dining table. We never said a formal grace, but my dad believed in giving thanks for all we had, especially each other. So, we’d look across the table — him smiling tenderly, and me with a smirk — and he’d say thank you for both of us. For the food we had, for all the wonderful things happening in our lives (“Kelsey getting her own song in the musical.” “Kelsey starting college.” “Kelsey’s new apartment and her new job, with benefits!”), and for this time we had together. We’d say “amen” and eat, and then we’d find a movie on TV.
I never chimed in to add any thanks of my own to my dad’s informal prayer. But I think he knew how glad I was to be there with him — to be his beloved only child, the other half of our small family. I never once wished for a bigger, more festive holiday. I loved our tiny traditions and shared jokes and funny memories. When I was in college, my dad moved in with his partner, Cindy — a Thanksgiving pro, who could cook the whole feast singlehandedly (though we did help, I promise). A decade later, I met and married my husband, Harry. And while our Thanksgiving table got a bit bigger, our traditions remained: the socked feet, the radio, my dad’s big smile as he looked at me and shared his list of thanks. “Most of all, I’m thankful to have such a wonderful daughter,” he’d always finish, in spite of my rolling eyes. “Well, I do, Kels.”
As the years passed and my own life grew bigger, Thanksgiving still felt like my dad’s holiday. Even if we only spoke on the phone, he always told me how thankful he was to have such a wonderful daughter. “And an incredible granddaughter,” he added after my daughter Margot was born. “I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve it.”
We planned to spend Thanksgiving 2024 together, in Maryland, where he and Cindy had moved a few years before. Harry and I sorted out travel plans and told dad and Cindy we’d bring the pies. Then, a month before the holiday, my dad was diagnosed with advanced lung cancer. I still planned to go down for Thanksgiving — of course, I would. But in the end, dad said he just wasn’t up for it. He tried to make it festive from afar. If you’d send me the name of a restaurant nearby, I’d like to order you all a Thanksgiving feast! he wrote in a text — conversation was tiring by then. All the trimmings! I told him I appreciated it, but not to worry about us. We’d be just fine, we’d been invited over by friends, and we would have a delicious, cozy Thanksgiving. It wasn’t a lie, but of course, it wasn’t the whole truth. The whole truth was a screaming, desperate grief so enormous that I thought it might split me in half if I opened my mouth and gave it a voice.
My dad started hospice the week after Thanksgiving. We visited. Margot chatted with him and performed the latest songs she’d learned at school, and he watched and nodded with the same sincere, attentive focus that he’d given to her every word and gesture since the moment he first held her. She hugged him and hugged him, and said goodbye. It seemed strange to do so when he was still very much himself — thinner and tired, but not “actively dying” as the hospice nurse put it. It was her gentle suggestion that if Margot were to have a final visit with him, it might be best to do so before that stage arrived. While he could still talk and listen and share the goofy little inside jokes they had together. It seemed so wretchedly unfair that she would get just five short years to share those jokes and songs with him — this man who loved with such steadfast, patient gentleness. The one who would answer the phone at 7 a.m. if she wanted to chat. The one who remembered the lyrics to all the songs she made up. The one whose hand she reached for whenever it was there to hold, and the one who always, always held hers back. Watching them, I wished, so much, that she could have as much time with him as I had. And I felt so grateful for the time she did have with him. This is what I’m thankful for. This, this, this.
My dad died less than three months later, in early February. The rest of this year has passed in fits and starts. These days, I have patches of relatively normalcy followed by long stretches of staggering grief. I’m brushing my teeth and going to work and all that, but I wouldn’t say I have my feet back under me. If anything, I’ve gotten more wobbly since the season shifted into fall and I ride out all these strange first anniversaries: the day he called to tell me; the day he started hospice; the day that Margot asked him for the last time, “Can I sing you a song?”
But Thanksgiving is still my dad’s holiday. So, last month, I called Cindy and asked if we might come spend it with her. “We don’t need to do the meal or anything,” I told her. “We can order pizza. We can just hang out and, y’know, figure it out.” In the fog of grief, I didn’t even know what I was asking for exactly, but she seemed to understand somehow, perhaps because she’s caught in the same fog. So this Thanksgiving, I’ll get in the car and drive my family to Maryland, so we can all figure it out. I don’t know what the holiday will look like this year, or any year from here on out. But I know we’ll cobble it together, one way or another, just like we always did. And when we sit down to our Thanksgiving pizza, I will look at my daughter and tell her that of all the things I’m thankful for, I’m most thankful for her. And so was her grandfather.
P.S. How to write a condolence note, and rituals to help yourself through grief.
