May I Be Excused Please

As a child, the memories of my mother's Thanksgiving are limited to the clink of glasses and the scrape of forks against china plates removed from their behind glass storage for one day only and woe to anyone who broke one, the press of interloping male shoulders at a full table, the gross sense of too much and of a sick belly.

As a teenager, my memories of family Thansgiving are of sullen slouching, of glaring through the curtain of overly long bangs, of being singly chastised for eating seconds and of a sick belly. 

As a young adult my memories of my sister-in-laws Thanksgiving are of loud and louder voices, of the piercing screams of children, of vomit on the table, of too much and of not enough, and of a sick belly.

As an adult my memories of my brother's Thanksgiving are of sitting across the table from my childhood abuser and pulling down the curtains of my eyes so the hate didn't shine out, of pretending everything was tasty and wonderful when every bite stuck in my throat and of a sick belly.

As a woman who makes the hard choices, my memories of my own Thanksgiving are of laughing stories, of crappy food, of small warm arms wrapped around me, of using the china and no longer caring, and of a belly full at last.