I’ve almost forgotten it’s Thanksgiving week. And then it occurred to me coming home from NYC on the bus as I watched a silvered couple get off in Panther Valley, hands full of flowers and luggage, embracing their daughter and grandchildren. It was sort of a beautiful thing to witness – coming home, coming to family. It made me a bit heart-sore.
When was the last time I was home for Thanksgiving? 2, 3 years ago? When was the last time I was home?
Pat and I are constantly adopted by friends which makes me feel wonderful that we’re thought of and invited into other families to celebrate and eat with them. It’s good we are loved outside of the people who naturally love us. But it makes me wonder how my family got so scattered? We’re always leaving love behind in some nook of the country. Maybe that says more about our independent nature than anything else? Maybe wanderlust or -lost?
In Port Authority, standing in line, girlfriends said goodbye. They held each other close, 20ish with stringy hair and like all the “hippies” I remember going to college with. I’m glad I saw them kissing, I’m glad I heard the one singing after they parted. I wondered who she was coming home to, if they “accepted” her life. Sometimes no matter what we do, the people who love us most want more than we can ever accomplish, more than our reality.
But she got off the bus to an equally stringy brother, who was smiling and prancing next to her like a puppy and a large puffed out man in a white t-shirt. They hugged until I couldn’t see them anymore, until Pat and I climbed the stairs to go home.

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