As far as my entry from yesterday goes about Thanksgiving, a lot of people have commented about their own plans, and how it doesn't need to be big to be special, and all that jazz. I don't want to sound ungrateful, because I know just how lucky I am to be spending this particular holiday with my mom, with whom I am unnaturally close, and my husband, whom I love very much, and my son, whom I adore more than I ever thought possible. I know that. And the four of us will have a good day. I'm sure.
The problem I have goes much deeper than that. It's rooted in the fact that Thanksgiving was SO tightly combined with my grandparents that separating the two is, well, next to impossible. It needs to become something new for me, because what it was will never exist again.
The bare bones, basic, bottom line is that I miss my grandparents.
I was the only child of their youngest child and only daughter. My grandmother and mother were as unnaturally close as my mother and I are, possibly even more so. I had the distinct pleasure and honor of spending all my school vacations and huge chunks of my summers in their house, be it the one in Beverly or the one on the lake in North Conway. They taught me so many things: how to fish, how to cook, how to spend long stretches of time by yourself with nothing but the lake to amuse you and never, ever be bored. They taught me to make family important above all else. My grandfather taught me what it means to respect the woman you love. My grandmother taught me how to cater to a man without being subservient or losing yourself. They taught me about balance in a marriage. I was the luckiest girl in the world.
Their deaths left huge holes in me. Thanksgiving just rips those open all over again. No wonder it feels wrong.