The Thanksgiving feast was my father's last supper, one he could barely eat before he was admitted to the hospital, only to die 10 days later in the hospice wing. He couldn't eat at all that night, nor could the rest of us. We knew something was terribly wrong if Dad was not commenting on a delicious meal. Ever since, grief has attached itself to this holiday. And yet, isn't it the miracle of healing and memory that we find a way, however long it takes, to get back to that time before the last supper? If this is a tale about the Thanksgiving holiday in the context of loss, it is also a story about the role of memory in the healing process.
Thanksgiving in my family, like many others, brings with it the shadow of death even as it also celebrates ongoing family love. It is almost always bittersweet. When the anniversary of the death of a loved one falls on a holiday, it has an added intensity because it returns to haunt us with the feeling of absence again and again on a day when families gather for a joyful meal together. Time's passage helps, but only partially.
