Thanksgiving Waves

Tryptophan.

I want to be Cliff Huxtable. This is what came to me while sipping wine with the Rouquie sisters. Not now of course, but soon, sooner than I had previously imagined. I led the toast, I said, “here’s to our hometown.” That night was my real Thanksgiving – and tonight. "Thanksgiving" certainly cannot be limited to walking through a squall, looking for anything cheap and edible with an uncle who frequently reminds himself of his homelessness. Thanksgiving is instead what I make it – a sardonic clinking of glasses over The Cosby Show and a quiet meal with the smell of candles and sweet potatoes. I am back at every Thanksgiving table ever set with doilied napkins and cornbread stuffing and there the skyline is still present, as it is within the smell of my after-dinner Corona. More vague however, is this new nostalgia: a mixture of rooftop air and human electricity.

Heathcliff Huxtable said, “You mean to tell me that your mother doesn’t have any butter for the cornbread?” then, long-faced, he went back into the rain again. He did it for Lisa Bonet and for Malcolm-Jamal Warner and even for Raven Symone. I was only out there for myself. Mc Donalds was closed and now it seemed that the supermarket was our only source of a mid-day Thanksgiving meal. What had brought us here?

A year earlier, my revelry had been unparalleled. Thanksgiving had culminated as I stood on the couch, a plate of Chicken Tikka Masala in one hand, serenading my friend’s c-p stricken mother. I sang Roberta Flack’s “Killing Me Softly” as she smiled and kept time with her right shoulder. The next day, I was surprisingly lucid as I stood in Belmont and buried my neck in the collar of my tweed jacket. The air was crisp and I could have been described as wistful if I wasn’t so contented. Whose call did I miss? My young cousins continued playing in the yard. I still hold onto those days, all those days, not allowing myself to forget what I felt and what I had accomplished. Lao Tzu said, “Work is done and then forgotten, and therefore, lasts forever.” I read this to my mother as she fell asleep.

My second Corona has settled me down (my tolerance isn’t what it used to be) and I no longer care if what I’m writing rings true with anyone else. This flood of memories is strong, yes, but vague references and double meanings make me a hypocrite; I’ve criticized many for conscious obscurity. As well as for faulty grammar and ellipsis...we were happier there, I too..."people only want funny"...sadie, white coat...was it her calling?...fuck this fucking shit, my socks are soaked through...it is a better word than the maudlin "someday"...how many times can I refer to myself in one paragraph?...There is something about Phylicia Rashad. She is undeniably the sexiest woman on syndicated TV. I haven't pinned down exactly what it is, but she does get my motor running. This is not the only reason I wanted to be Cliff Huxtable. Malkmus said, “If I could settle down, then I would settle down.” Itsuka.

At Stop and Shop, the P.A. system reminded us that, due to the holiday, they were closing in twenty minutes, but such an admonition was unneeded; I was already carrying our purchases to the register – two ham and cheddar Lunchables. My uncle cracked a toothless smile and said, “finally, something to be thankful for.” We thought it was funny.