Not this year. This year I am grateful for the holiday's early appearance, because it brought with it not a pilgrim, but a prodigal: my firstborn child. Eldest son has moved way out west, to the Pacific coast, to attend the University of British Columbia, but he came home for the long holiday weekend. Not without some grumbling, mind, because as it turned out he had a presentation to give and a math quiz to take and upcoming midterms to study for, but the plans had been laid and tickets booked long before. So he boarded the red-eye and landed in Toronto at six o'clock Friday morning. I could hardly sleep the night before and popped awake at 5:00 to collect him.
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| Special delivery: Pearson Airport, 6 a.m. |
He was happy to be home, to be fed and coddled and cuddled. And he needed it. He had a lingering cough and a battered thumb from a bizarre rowing accident and tired, bloodshot eyes. As soon as he entered the kitchen he raided the fridge. Moments later he climbed into bed in his own room and slept for hours. I like to think he does still need his mommy, as well as his daddy and his brother and his sister and his cats. It's been so wonderful for all of us having him here. The best part of the weekend was in fact not sharing the scrumptious feast with good friends, nor witnessing the happy reunion of son with his mates, but having a few quiet hours when the five of us sat home, reading and studying and listening to the radio and playing FIFA '16 and giggling. The stuff that up til a month ago was normal life. I can't believe I ever took it for granted. Silly me.
I am quite sure son enjoyed his visit, the friends and the turkey and the cranberry sauce and his family. But he missed uni, too. "Next year," he tells us, "I'm definitely not coming home for Thanksgiving. I'll be way too busy."
We shall see. For this year, at least, I'm thankful.
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