So this is what it is like, the waiting for their arrival because they got away from work late, driving through the night to come to the house where family Thanksgiving will be held , our house, here. In just a minute or hour or two the lights of their car will flash in the windows as they pull into the drive and I, jammy clad, will welcome the bleary eyed children as they pile out and in, a few possessions in hand, though Dad is really unloading the car, hauling the suitcases and trash bags of stuff.
This is what it was like for my parents, no wait, my grandparents, as we invaded year after year. And they were up waiting, rising from a nap, or reading by the table lamp when the next generation came a calling. And now it’s me wiping sleep from my eyes, turning on the lights and turning down the beds. We just trade places, that’s all.
What I will never tell this nephew and his all too pregnant wife and their adorable children is that he will be me soon enough. I will not tell him, first, because it could never mean anything now, at this place in his road. But more importantly, I will not tell him because I would never take from him the strange moment I just had, when I stepped into the same waiting of those who once waited for me just because it is my turn.