What a Blessing!

From rsnhope.org

What a Blessing!
The table was loaded with a traditional Thanksgiving feast: turkey, cornbread stuffing, oyster
dressing, black-eyed peas, candied yams, cranberry sauce, buttered dinner rolls, pumpkin pie,
bottles of ice-cold Coca-Cola®, coffee and tea, and assorted candied nuts for noshing.
I looked at the spread and sighed. Yesterday, I’d pulled my customary 5 kg and smiled at my
chirpy little dietician, knowing what she was about to say: “Mr. Keith, you be careful tomorrow
and take your binders.”
Yeah, right. If you don’t get outta my face, I’m gonna knock you and your comic-book handouts
into next week.
“Oh, yes, ma’am, I’m gonna take it easy tomorrow. All that food don’t tempt me none.”
I’m lying like a rug, but what do you expect me to say?
So here I am, sitting at the table and looking at the Spread of Death, while my grandson’s
gnawing on a drumstick, and he isn’t playing either. (Gets his appetite from me, y’know.) When
he was a toddler, I’d put him on my lap and feed him off my plate, just like I used to do with his
mama. Oh, well, turkeys come with two legs, so I’m still okay.
Wait a minute—this one had two. Where’s the other one? I know my wife didn’t take it; she’s a
vegan. Well, okay, not a real vegan, she’s more like in the Vegan Reserves. You know, one
weekend a month, two weeks a year, and that’s it! She’s delicately dissecting a wing, being ohso-careful with her knife and fork. We’ve been married over 30 years now, and she still has the
same continental table manners she had when we met. The same twinkling eyes, too. Normally,
she would have fixed my plate, being careful with the portions, because, as she says, “Your
kidneys may have failed you, but I’m not a kidney—I’m your wife. And I don’t plan on being a
widow any time soon.”
Sweet! But where’s that drumstick?
Aha! My daughter has it! Oh, I get it—she’s fixing Daddy’s plate. Good girl!
Huh? She handed it to her husband!?
With a full serving of all the sides?
I’m getting ready to rearrange Thanksgiving dinner right into everybody’s lap, because I’m
supposed to be the head of this table, but now I feel like a child who’s barely being tolerated.
I take a deep breath and look around. My mother and father are sitting next to each other, smiling
and holding hands. Holding hands, for gosh sakes! Euwwww! They know they’re too old for that!
“Y’all cut that out,” I said, glaring at them. “You’re setting a bad example for the child.”
My father grinned at me. “Boy, I started you off with a hand-hold, so hush.” He turned to my
mother. “Remember that, baby? I was on shore leave, and I was so glad to see you! We didn’t
have a turkey on the table; all we had was some chicken! But we was happy and in love, so what
was on the table didn’t matter. We….“
“We had each other—and a little bun in the oven,” my mother finished, “and that was enough.
We did all right and now look! Our son and his wife, in this beautiful house, our granddaughter
and her husband, and our great-grandson…and we’re all together. The preacher said it right:
‘What a blessing!’”
She glanced at my empty plate. “What are you waiting for?” she asked, smiling a little, like she
knew something was up. My wife had gone into the kitchen while I was inspecting the table, and
she came out with a pan, covered with an aluminum lid and decorated with a red bow. “Happy
Thanksgiving!” she said and raised the lid with a flourish. “Ta-daaa!” she exclaimed.
A crisp Cornish game hen lay in the center of the pan, surrounded by white rice and golden
brown gravy. “I made this just for you, honey,” she said, looking around the table with
significant glances at the men. “Just for you,” she repeated. “Take two extra binders, and you’ll
be fine.”
My eyes misted, but I kept myself from crying (although God knows I wanted to). It wouldn’t be
good for the boy to see his Pop-Pop cry, y’know. “Thank you, honey,” I answered. “Thank you,
and Happy Thanksgiving to all of you. Now let’s eat; the food’s getting cold!”
Author:
Keith Matthews
ESRD Pt.
Crowley, LA