I started writing this post a couple of times, and while there's so much to be thankful for, I'm not sure this thought really sank in until last night.
I've been celebrating Thanksgiving at my Grandmother's house since I can remember, with the exception of a few years in New York or once in Clemson as a college student. Thanksgivings here have always been full. Full of people, and cozy morning coffee in pajamas, watching the parade; nostalgic dishes prepared in a time capsule kitchen of the most enduring appliances, brown lenolium floors and scallop trimmed cabinets. Exactly as it was it built by my Grandpa Bob in the late 70s/early 80s. Year after year, our family has changed. We've added spouses and babies and dogs to the mix, but the house has remained the same.
Now that my Grandmother and mom have passed and my Dad is living here in this house, this is the first year we're back. And it is different. The house is not the same. An amalgamation of two houses worth of furniture, art and house plants take up a lot of space. Certain touches faithfully arranged by Grandmother are absent because we just can't do it like she did.
At first it made me a little sad. But I spent some time last night going through things. I pulled things from little stashes to give them new homes within the home. I arranged meaningful pictures, hung art that brings with it the joy of the home I grew up in. I had the unexpected fun of going through my mom and dads epic record collection.
And after the last of our traveling family arrived late last night, I was laying in bed with Eva and Este, on a little twin mattress arranged surprisingly comfortably in a guest room I slept in so many nights as a little girl myself. A wave of overwhelming peace and gratitude washed over me. Gratitude for this house, meticulously designed and built by my late Grandpa Bob for my Grandma Dori.