The Thanksgiving Table

As I started the coffee early Thanksgiving morning, I remembered this day last year when Mom had relinquished the meal to me. It had been a morning much like this one – the house quiet, the view from the window dark with only a sliver of light emerging on the horizon. I’d cradled the phone against my shoulder and tried to sound brave.

“What’s in there?” I’d asked Mom.

Her laugh was groggy. “The gizzards. Take them out. They’re in a bag.”

I did the deed, feeling a little grossed out. “Okay. I got it.”

I’d hung up the phone only to call her back at least three more times before my husband, Tim, went to pick her up.

Last year’s memory stung as I stood at the kitchen sink while the cold, slippery turkey waited on me. My eyes filled as my cell phone rested on the counter. I couldn’t call Mom today, just like I hadn’t been able to call her for the past seven months. It would be our first Thanksgiving without her. I worried about Alex, who adored his grandma, so I hoped to keep a smile on my face to keep our five-year-old son from losing his.

When the coffee was ready, I pulled out the glass mug Mom had kept hidden away in her cupboard and only brought out for my visits – it was worn and etched from years of visiting the dishwasher. I took care of the turkey, tucked it in the oven, and went to work peeling the sweet potatoes.

Sometime around noon, Tim crawled into the kitchen on his hands and knees, neighing like a horse while Alex rode on his dad’s back.

“We’ve got a hungry cowboy here needing some grub.”

“Ooh! I don’t want grubs.”

Tim laughed as Alex slid off. “What about a hot dog?”

“Okay.” Alex ran back to the living room.

“How are the placemats coming along?” I asked, peeling carrots into the sink.

“He’s almost done. Our son is quite the artist.” Tim kissed my cheek. “How are you holding up?”

I shrugged and forgot how to speak as something lodged in my throat and tears came on their own, making the carrots blur in my hands. He wrapped his arms around me.

“She wouldn’t want you to be sad,” he whispered.

I nodded against his chest and tried to keep breathing.

Grandpa and Nana, Tim’s parents, were the first to arrive hours later carrying homemade cranberry sauce in a glass bowl, a box of crayons, and a sketchpad for Alex.

“Maybe you can draw a picture of me at the lake,” Grandpa said. “Holding a really big fish.”

Nana chuckled as she peeled off her coat. “Franklin, don’t get him started on your fish tales.” She leaned down and whispered something about a goldfish. Alex giggle.

My cousin Sharon and her boyfriend arrived, followed by Tim’s brother and his wife. The house was filling up, and I hoped it would somehow fill the void in my heart that would only get worse when I took my place at the table beside Mom’s empty chair.

As everyone gathered in the kitchen, laughing and telling jokes, Tim’s cell phone rang. He mouthed to me, Jeff – his uncle from Florida. He took the phone from his ear, tapped it, and it went to speaker.

“Happy Thanksgiving, everyone,” Jeff said. “Sorry we couldn’t make it this year.”

The room shouted back their well wishes for a happy Thanksgiving. Before Tim hung up, Jeff softly added, “And I’m really sorry for your loss. I know how hard it is to lose a parent.”

I nodded because it was all I could do.

“Thanks,” Tim said. “Talk to you soon.”

As he ended the call, Alex tugged at my shirt. “What did you lose, Mommy?”

Tim answered for me. “Grandma isn’t here. Remember we talked about how she went to heaven?”

Alex’s blue eyes widened. “She’s lost in heaven?”

“No, sweetie. She’s just not here with us,” I managed to say.

Alex hurried to the living room and brought back a stack of homemade placemats – his Thanksgiving drawings for each person. He spread them out on the kitchen table, searching for one. After he found it, he brought it to me.

“See. I made a special one for Grandma.”

He held up a picture in brown and red crayon on orange construction paper. It was a drawing of a long table that appeared large in the foreground and smaller in the background until it seemed to disappear into the paper itself.

“That’s a really long table,” I said.

“It’s the Thanksgiving table in heaven,” he said. “See, there’s Grandma. She’s not lost. She’s smiling really big because she gets to sit beside Jesus. And He’s smiling big too because He missed her a lot. But now she’s home.”

I spotted rectangular placemats in front of empty chairs, so I bent down to ask. “What are all of these?”

“Those are the placemats Jesus made for people that aren’t there yet. Miss Clark said in Sunday School that Jesus went to make a place for each one of us.”

I hadn’t thought about empty places at a table in heaven waiting for us. I’d only thought about one empty chair here that made my heart ache. But right there beside Mom was an empty chair with what appeared to be my glass mug resting on the table, like she was waiting for me. I smiled, forcing a tear down my cheek.

Alex hugged me and whispered in my ear, “Don’t cry. Grandma is happy now. And she’s saving your seat.”