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Pilgrim (Or, Mother Knows Best)

Turkey. Wine. Pie. So stuffed, he’s sick. So empty. He’s her friend.

It’s good to see his mother, after being away so long. But, it’s a brief harbor; unmoored, he feels especially adult this year. A broken heart, his graduation. More wine, please.

He’s told his mother the abridged version; one look and she knew the rest. Such a beautiful boy. Capable of love with rare depth. She wonders how anyone could turn down that gift.

Back home, he falls into bed. His nauseous exhaustion not just turkey-induced. He’ll start again tomorrow.

Try to be thankful to have a friend.

****************************

She usually loves Thanksgiving. Cooks cranberries, bakes. This year, she’s hungry, but has no appetite.

Her mom sees her not eating. Sees all the things she is doing, except one.

She says: when you were little, you wore a pilgrim’s costume; you were convincing as someone brave. If you think you are, you are. Love doesn’t just disappear.

She drives past her street, keeps going. His house is dark, but his car is there. He opens the door, barely awake. She is a pilgrim. She sees surprise in his eyes. She sees everything.

She’s so thankful he’s not her friend.