Written by Dennis Harvell
This essay comes from a place of sadness, but also gratitude. The kitchen was once the heart of our family, and though silence has replaced its noise, the memories remind me of what truly matters.
The Cold is a Liar
The cold is a liar today. It promises a holiday spirit that no longer exists, reminding me only that the warmth of my family’s togetherness has scattered.
I miss the times when the holidays—especially Thanksgiving—meant something more profound than the commercial noise that now overshadows it. The cold outside mirrors the hollow feeling the day carries, a sentiment magnified by what my family has lost.
Six Siblings Minus One
I remember how we gathered in the house on that one day, even as adults. The remaining siblings—minus our lost brother—would cluster in the kitchen, laughing, reminiscing about our youth and the shenanigans we got into. Quietly, I called us “six siblings minus one,” a reference to an incomplete family portrait we once tried to take.
The TV was never on, nor was the radio. It was just our voices: drinking, eating, and enjoying each other’s company. No matter our differences, we always came together for that one day, put them aside, and showed up for each other. Eating too much was a sport we played, and we would all happily lose to my brother. My mother wasn’t a great cook, but we never told her. We ate whatever she prepared because we knew her dishes were made with care, love, and authenticity.
Her Smile, Her Strength
As the years went on, we realized how sick our mother was. Fiercely independent, she tried desperately to hide the severity of her condition until she physically couldn’t take care of herself and relied on us to get her around. Even in her weakened state, she would dredge through activities—shopping, taking her grandkids to the movies, dragging herself to the Thanksgiving Day parade in the snow—carrying on as if she were fine.
She hated being waited on, and we became her unofficial caretakers, taking turns to help her. Despite her condition, we continued the tradition. On every Thanksgiving, the kids—now adults—took over the cooking. Our mother, in her weakened state, would sit across the kitchen table in a chair, watching us with a warm smile. I can still see it: a smile full of love and gratefulness that we were together, shadowed by sad eyes.
Afterwards, we would retire to the living room to relax, reset, and strategize how to devour the sweet potato pie with gusto. With music playing, we danced, shared joy, and walked down memory lane through the heavy photo albums. We looked at the same pictures year after year, and it didn’t matter—they brought the same laughter and bright smiles as we recalled the stories.
Fractures
After our mother passed away, and another brother years later, the tradition no longer existed. One brother tried to build his own version at his house, but the rest of the siblings weren’t always around or couldn’t attend. We did what we could to be there for his daughters, my nieces, but Thanksgiving was never the same. That love, that closeness, became distant, and the gatherings eventually stopped. Years later, that brother grew ill and also passed away, leaving the family even more fractured—now four siblings.
My mother was the glue that kept us together. Now that she is gone, and we have grown older, scattered, and built families of our own, practical responsibilities make it difficult to gather. The meaning of the holiday is simply not the same. I’m happy my siblings spend the day with their children, but the sadness remains that we cannot spend that one day together, as a family, like we used to.
The Echo of Gratitude
So for me, this special day now feels like any other, and often I spend it alone. But I still find comfort in the weight of those memories—of my mother and my siblings. They are strong enough to bring me back to that simpler time when we were close, present, and whole.
The kitchen may be silent now, but its echoes remind me that gratitude lives in memory. And that is the true message of thanks we should carry: to honor the moments we shared, regardless of how far apart we may be now. Hopefully, I find that path again.
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