There is a turkey in the oven. A 13lb wonder that is veiled with a cheese cloth, soaked every 30 minutes with butter and clementine citrus juices. It’s my first turkey I’ve ever baked and so far so easy. Two-ish hours to go to really determine my fate as a successful turkey roaster.
I grew up in Virginia with a slew of uncles, cousins, and mother who chanted “Hail to the Redskins!” before I even knew my alphabet. I remember family gatherings, Thanksgiving specifically and my Nannie’s birthday parties where we would heap mounds of homemade southern food onto doubled-up paper plates at 11a.m. Gather round multiple dining…
I listen. I am calmed. There is a tightly curled brown dog sleeping deep sighs beside me while little bird songs float down the hallway from my daughter’s room. My daughter. I have a tall, beautiful daughter who emanates joy and enthusiasm for life. I listen. I am calmed. The songs continue.
I have had this picture in my mind for years and years. I am sitting on a hardwood floor, one leg bent up to my chest while the other leg extends in front. I am lacing on a pair of shoes with great determination; tying them tighter than tight, because it’s as if they come…
As I sit here, curled in a seat for many more hours, I am comforted by the chubby, small, hand tracing my fingers as the car’s rhythmic movement lulls sleepiness into her body. She is engulfed by soft purple fleece jammies and grip-equipped feeties beckoning her to give-in to the rest so needed after a…