But, still. I am thankful, to the point of some dizzying gratitude that paralyzes me: how could I dare to take any more? And yet, there is always more to be had. The decision to stay in Chicago for the holiday is validating in some strange way. Not that I don't want to be with my family, I love them all dearly, but I am home for Thanksgiving. This city, as ignorant as I am of most of its huge collection of neighborhoods in shining bottles, how easily I lose my way when away from the lake, is the place where I live now. Even if I in so many ways fail to be a real adult, I have found a place to make a home in, and for that I am thankful.
And for every time that I did something stupid, found myself somewhere dangerous, falsely thought or did not know myself to be close to the edge of something tragic, and somehow came through unscathed beyond a young woman's typical scarring. Everyone I've ever loved, even if things have changed. Time passes, and I forget, or, worse, I remember, and either way dreams remain.
Last night I had a dream about a Thanksgiving dinner in a huge uncomfortable labyrinth of a house. People were scattered in small awkward groups in rooms that were somehow both empty and cramped. The floors were hardwood and the light was harsh and yellow. I was trying to find someone I could talk to. Periodically someone would try and tell the group around them what they were thankful for, but the effort was too great in the face of the big silence and the strong drinks and the long suburban roads they had taken to get there.
I didn't know I was looking for you until I reached the room where you were, sitting alone on the floor, studying where the dirt had gotten permanently caught in the scratches. You seemed happy to see me but I wasn't sure. We were talking, and I was stacking dishes (like the ones in my kitchen as I write this) that had come from somewhere, and I almost couldn't stand to speak. I was so overwhelmed by seeing you that all I could do was arrange the silverware with shaking hands. You asked me to get you some food from the kitchen, and I was so ready to do you any favor that I didn't think of how hard it might be to get back until I was already halfway there. On the way to the kitchen, hours passed. When I arrived, a fight had broken out between two drunk, bitter young women. I became unwillingly involved in a peace-keeping capacity, and things kept getting more and more complicated. When I finally had the kitchen nearly to myself, I found cold meat wrapped in tin foil, began to cut it into slices. I glanced over at the girl passing out on a stool nearby, and I realized how late it was. I knew you were already gone. I wondered if you'd known that this was exactly what would happen.