I was just reading my last book about my dad last night, and I was reminded, and then started remembering what my last Thanksgiving was like on that side of the world. I am currently living in Abidjan, Ivory Coast, and this is my 2nd year here for this holiday, that really isn’t a holiday.
In Puerto Rico, the backdrop was palm trees and beaches, sunny weather and bikinis, pretty much all year round. 2019 Thanksgiving was somber and sad. My dad was literally dying of a brain tumor, it was hot outside, and nobody was really in the mood. We did have Mac and cheese and I made a couple sweet potato pies for my babies.
For 13 years straight, Atlanta, Ga was the background. Complete with the leaves changing color, brisk cold air, pumpkin decor and hats and mittens, this was the classic scene of the holiday.
I don’t like the holiday anymore. I’m well aware of the truth about it, but while I was in Atlanta, it became something more to me, because every year my dad would come to my house for thanksgiving. His presence at that time every year was always welcomed, and he was the life of the party. He could cook like no other, and loved his family, especially his grand daughters. Toward the end of his life, the quality of our thanksgiving’s declined, and for the past couple of years I’ve not been in America to try it again.
I will always love the food, no matter what day it is, but it will never be the same for me. Maybe I’ll find the joy in it again when I become a grandmother myself. It’s just a reminder of him, and how much I miss his presence. I know he’s always watching over us, and keeping us safe. I’ll forever miss and love my daddy. 💙💙💙