Even When

Despite all the travel warnings, I took an unexpected trip this Thanksgiving.

I have always believed that the day after the traditional feast (with turkey and all its wonderful trimmings and of course, the football games and parade) is really when most of us should give Thanks.

On the quiet Friday, now ominously labeled “Black,” we can reflect with gratitude on the largesse of food served in an atmosphere of love enjoyed earlier in the week. It allows a time of quiet contemplation and often is filled with nuggets of memory tinged with both sorrow and joy.

Thus it was for me yesterday. I had enjoyed not only a feast of food, but more importantly, the embrace and generosity of family highlighted by an introduction to a new member.

Yet as always there was the tinge of loss. The Fabulous Four have not remained intact geographically. They all grasped the reins of independence early. The good Lord kindly allowed their Father and I to not only understand, but support their choices.

So while I am blessed to enjoy one amazing family, both original members and new additions, there are moments when wistfully I have submerged memories that arise.

Such it was last night after watching the fairytale saga of Spencer, my own captive chapter of yesterdays awoke.

As I remembered many things,both good and bad (the day the turkey fell on the floor), I decided to revisit the home we six had shared for decades.

Highlighting the photo album on my Ipad, I viewed the white cape cod that was embraced by a tired wooden fence.

As I stepped back into the kitchen now appearing pristine and tidy (thanks to the realtor’s photography) I wistfully believed I could smell cookies baking.

Then I traveled upstairs to where the Fabulous Four had once laughed, loved but also on occasion crossed emotional swords of anger and misunderstanding. Still I remembered with gratitude they all survived and emerged without too much scar tissue even from endless hours of listening to “Time In A Bottle.”

Holding tightly on the scarred oak bannisters (a second had been added during the last years when he reluctantly agreed it was needed) I descended the blue carpeted staircase.

I had left visiting the den with the weathered leather chair and the roll top desk until last. The small blue couch (where somehow or other five of us gathered watching tv together) appeared faded and slightly worn around the edges.

And somehow, and I am not quite sure how, for a very brief moment we were all there again together and he was still sitting in that leather chair with us.

Before I could blink the tears away, I remembered the wisdom of Thomas Wolfe’s oft misquoted words:

“You can never go home again.”

Then I added

“Even when you try.”