The left-over turkey is lodged a thousand miles
from here in the refrigerator of the house that my
son and his girlfriend bought back in June, to the
delight of both sets of parents, anticipating as we did
that something momentous would soon follow,
like an engagement or a wedding.
But we are boomers, that odd generation spawned
when the appearance of global peace beguiled our
parents into reproducing in record numbers; rather
like rabbits, some might say, as though a house full
of kids could stabilize the psychic careen wrought by
Part Two of the World War.
We grew up on a thick stew of things they didn’t have;
straight teeth and television, finished basements, electric
dryers, air conditioning, telephones with extension cords,
second cars and possibility, and yet there was so much
of the hows and whys of their lives that we didn’t want
them to pass along to us.
We took on neighborliness, but not the concern for what
they thought of us or the worry over who they were. We
honored faith, but church was not our axis, and the
sanctity of place was lost on us as we moved far enough to
keep their traditions from influencing our creation of what
we thought were better ways.
Little did we know that in teaching our children to think
like us we also taught them distance and difference, and they
choose not to marry like us or settle like us, or hold their ends
of the cord like us, the one that goes all the way back to Eden
and runs us all through, and God knows, I have prayed that
their rebellion would be a tighter grip.
I didn’t call my Father on Thanksgiving. Perhaps it’s not too late.
© Dana Hughes 11.29.16