When the NaBloPoMo well runs dry, I check here or here for help with a topic. So far I've found several things I want to write about, but not at the time I find them. I've found topics that I think need a visual, so I need to go get a picture, or things that need real concentration or time I just don't have at that moment to do the topic justice. Ironically, one that popped up today is "What do you sense you're supposed to do before your life is over?" iPastor was just asking me today about our overarching vision, as in: we need one. Once again, the topic merits more thought than I can give it right now, but I'll get back to you.
I kept scrolling and got this instead.
Dear Mom and Dad,
I just celebrated one more holiday without you. By now I've had more holidays without either of you than I ever had with you. A person gets used to orphanhood, but there are times when your absence is more tangible. Earlier I found myself typing the phrase "Thanksgiving at home" and I stopped myself. Where exactly is that, anyway? I have many places in my life where I feel loved and welcome, but Thanksgiving "at home" would be in a small grey house with too many people crammed in, but I never realized we were crowded. Holidays at home meant waking up to conversations and laughter drifting up the stairway with the aroma of coffee. Dinner was crowded onto the kitchen table and I usually wound up sitting on a box fan, but I didn't care. The people I loved would be gathered near and I relished it. I somehow tuned into how important those times were and took note of it, even if I didn't realize why at the time. I hope that my children will realize the importance of these times and keep them close to their own hearts. My children are blessed beyond measure to have a huge network of family beyond blood ties to love them and care for them. They will still miss out on having you, the you of your prime, when you were healthy, strong and full of laughter. I often wish you could know your grandchildren, hear their voices, share their triumphs, but moreso I wish they could know you. They will never know what they have missed. I do.