Cover Photo: photo by vxla/flickr
photo by vxla/flickr

The Thanksgiving We Never Had

“1993 was the only year when my parents and all my siblings and I could have spent the holiday together.”


In my mind’s eye, my husband opened the door and let our son out to run the few steps to his grandfather, who scooped him up into his lap. Daddy bounced the boy for a minute, then put him down so he could jet down the stairs to the beach. Rustin ran after him, catching up and throwing our giggling toddler over his shoulder.

My breathing blended with the rhythm of the waves. I could hear my father’s laughter, feel my cheeks stretched with my own smile, taste the salty air on my tongue with the beer.


Writer living in Washington, DC, working on a memoir about my late father, a minister who was absent from my life.