uniquely american

the day before thanksgiving, and i've already told the story twice to anyone who'll listen. remember last year... remember working ten hours at two jobs, remember perpetual grey skies without even the beginning of the promise of snow, remember staring at the spot of drying vomit on the Tube and smelling turkey over the phone lines, remember choking down dry, pre-packaged falafel after everyone else was asleep?

remember how much you missed the thought of hours in a kitchen big enough to use, and the simple pleasure of flour in your hair? remember how even the family friends who always forgot your name would have been comforting, would have been something, at least, to be thankful for. remember how the day passed unremarked.

looking back, i think i've forgiven myself for feeling directionless, for seeming spiteful or angry. this year, there'll be a house full of loud and fabulous people, an assault of smells, and lights, and garish decorations. this year pumpkin pie will rub out the taste of couscous, and people who care will gently touch my scars and ask me to explain. and i'll tell them twice, about feeling lonely and empty and lost without them and about all the people to whom i owe thanks for making last year bearable.

the day before thanksgiving, and this morning coworker S. said, "you're starting to look thinner," and suddenly it doesn't matter so much that it's raining.