In a tiny nutty shell

I hate Thanksgiving and awkward large family events. They are so uncomfortable and I never feel like I belong. Even in my own home. I prefer to be alone.

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Sunrise. Sunset. I can see them both from my perch up here on top of the world. I guess I’d have to turn the other way to see the sunrise, and the town of Middlebury might interrupt it a bit. But the sunset has nothing in between me and it. Just hail bails and crickets.

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Maybe I only hate Thanksgiving because it’s different than it used to be. It’s not my whole family, but rather part of pretending to be a whole set. For me the most important parts are absents. My mom. My grandma. They are alone.

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I don’t remember how old I was, but I still have the letter she wrote me. The tooth fairy forgot to come and so her supervisor wrote me a letter of apology. I can only imagine that my dad forgot to swap the tooth for a quarter when he came home from work so late at night. My mom had to cover.

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I don’t want to be part of Thanksgiving. People pretending we’re whole. I want my other half. I don’t want to feel empty in my own home.

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The sunset is gorgeous. Time stops. But every time I blink, the sun jumps two inches lower in the sky. There are no interruptions from life up here on the roof unless I bring them up here with me. I prefer to watch in silence.

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This stupid day makes me remember the way it used to be. The whipped cream war that broke out, that ended with laughter and a mess and the kitchen covered in edible foam. I miss that.

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The tooth got swapped the next night with a dollar bill. I found the note (written in a mix of my parents’ hand) on my floor. I could say I was upset or shocked by her oversight, but I don’t remember. I just remember the letter and finding it on the floor.

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The most beautiful change comes after the sun escapes behind the horizon. The colors blend and morph into a mixture I cannot understand. I wish I had someone to share this with.