Kimberlee K.

Thanksgiving in my house can be busy. We are a well-oiled machine, but with a lot of people in a small space, it can still get crowded, loud, and chaotic.

My parents always host, and the first hour or two the front door opens and shuts with people arriving in droves, carrying tote bags full of miscellaneous ingredients, ice chests full of soda and water, the occasional bottle of alcohol that those over 21 will ogle at, ponder over, and take shots of, and, more recently, diaper bags, strollers, and perhaps even a bubble machine.

With each new guest we stand and hug and offer casual greetings that then give us permission to ask any question or tell any story we brought for the day. We share pictures, compare nail colors, guess the artists on our Spotify Wrapped, and make meaningful eye contact across the room when grandpa says something unfiltered.

I stand in the kitchen and grate cheese for the macaroni dish I do every year and my mom paces around the kitchen, getting out the silverware and china that a few of us will organize and set the table with. Lids on pots are raised and steam rises as spoons dip in to check the side dishes, and the oven opens so the turkey—always given a name that starts with T—can be basted and talked to encouragingly.

Chips are dipped in salsa and hands catch crumbs as we scroll through our minds for the pictures posted on Instagram that we have follow up questions on, and trips are rehashed while arms are grabbed in relief as someone says, “oh my gosh, I’m so glad you reminded me to tell you this.”

Come dinner time, those in the kitchen hand those in the dining room potholders and they spread them around the set table, preparing it for the hot dishes being transferred. Everyone takes their seats and passes each dish to the person next to them, often echoing what’s inside.

“Green beans” pass “Green beans” pass “Green beans”

“Stuffing” pass “stuffing” pass “stuffing.”

A basket of rolls follows the pattern, but eventually it stops at one end of the table and anyone who wants another has it tossed across the table to them. Those missing portions of random dishes will call them out like colors on a Twister mat and everyone at the table looks around to see if it’s close to them.

After dinner, after the dishes, after the kitchen is in as much order as it can be, everyone sits down. Some at the dining room table, some in the living room watching football, some in between. Little feet stomp around outside, burning off energy before bedtime and adult postures slant as the tryptophan hits and the adrenaline of the day wears off.

This year, I was sitting in the dining room at the end of the day, eyeing the desserts in the center of the table, trying to figure out if I had room for one more cookie. There were conversations happening on top of conversations and yet we could all understand each other and hop from place to place, person to person with ease.

My aunt sat with my three-year-old cousin playing Candyland and he asked to hold all of the game cards because he wanted to count them.

When he started, everyone in the house went quiet.  

“one, two, three, four, five…”

His small voice became the loudest in the room as we all listened.

“thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen…”

His f’s sounded like h’s, making the counting that much cuter and worthy of our attention.

“twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four…”

He occasionally lost count when he dropped a card, or perhaps when he realized how many of us were watching.

“thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three…eleven, twelve, thirteen…twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty.”

And though the game only has about 50 cards, he was determined to show us he could count to one hundred.

“forty-three, forty-four, forty-five, one hundred!”

Our Thanksgiving this year was busy, it had a lot of moving pieces, like always, and it had a lot of extra weight, a lot of impending change, a lot of reasons to want to be close and together and present. And while I think we’re good at that every year, every holiday, every time we are together, there was a special lightness in this moment of listening to a three-year-old count. Of looking around the room at all of us smiling and waiting, existing solely in this little mission to say one hundred!