giving thanks

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Thanksgiving is done. Turkey was cooked, gravy was made, cranberry sauce was eaten, and thanks were given. Normally I love Thanksgiving, because it's a non-religious holiday where the presents are delecious entrees and it's okay to eat as much pie as you want. This year was different. B and I still made an amazing dinner, and my family was there, and new friends too, but it was still plainly apparent that something was missing. We sat at the table in her studio because it was big enough to hold all people. We were surrounded by all her art supplies that my dad still hasn't had the heart to throw away. Her paintings covered the walls. And a giant easel stood at one end of the studio with a penciled flower sketch on a canvas, a piece that will never be finished. It was started years ago, before they even discovered the cancer, before all the chemotherapy and radiation and surgeries and doctors robbed her of the desire to create beatiful things. It's been sitting in the same place, in the same barely started state, through it all. And it's still there, at the end of the studio, a reminder hovering off to the side of our Thanksgiving table.

Needless to say, it wasn't easy. And I'm thankful to be home.