I am feeling very stagnant.  I am going through a period of nothingness. There is so much to do: calls to make, purging and packing, getting the house on the market, probate, selling cars, furniture and much, much more…too much to remember or even think about. I am overwhelmed. Yes, some things are urgent, and doing nothing could backfire, but I am completely unmotivated to do anything today… except write.

Yesterday I brought out a box of winter clothes; sweaters, warm socks, scarves and gloves. I found his favorite cap, still with the comforting smell of his bald head.  That goofy orange shirt he loved and refused to give away, and his favorite maroon sweatpants. There was the ocean blue sweater I gave him last Christmas. “It matches your eyes,” I said. Here were the empty matching snowman mugs for the hot chocolate he claimed as his special concoction. “Especially for you,” he said.

It will be exactly one month on Wednesday the 23^rd, yet it seems so much longer. How will I feel on this day before Thanksgiving, his favorite holiday? Cooking was his passion. He loved to cook for me and with me. He beamed when I complimented his sumptuous meals, and then he would say, “Am I beaming?” I miss his voice, the hug with his long arms encircling my body, the kiss on the top of my head, and how he said “Ha!” when he laughed. 

Echoes

I can hear a fire crackling, the comforting smell of smoke from the fireplace intertwined with the savory smells of dinner being prepared in our warm kitchen. There are dishes rattling, pans clattering. Laughter.

A toast: “To you," I said.

“No, to you!” he said.

Glasses clinking.

Mashed potatoes, turkey gravy, and “There could be a few lumps,” I said.

“This is the best I’ve ever had!” he said.

Sweet, spicy pumpkin pie with a dollop of whipped cream, and “Oh, the crust is a bit brown,” I said.

“It’s better than my mother’s!” he said. 

Emptiness

There will be no camera flashes to capture a special memory, just vacant chairs, and an empty table.

Now I am feeling a bit unstable.

I will look out at the quiet street on Thanksgiving Day. My windows will not be steamy, reminiscent of holidays past.
Silence, but for a few crisp, colorful leaves swirling on the sidewalk.

“Do you remember…?”