Two years ago, I flew home for Thanksgiving because my grandmother died. The fallen matriarch left like grout from brick and all falls down in family cohesion.
Last year, I stayed in Los Angeles for Thanksgiving. The night before my ex-boyfriend (then, boyfriend) and I had a huge fight over who knows what. Thanksgiving day I thought he had died or ran away, and by 4 p.m. when we were supposed to head to his family’s dinner celebration, he had yet to be heard from. He wasn’t dead. We went to Thanksgiving. It was nice.
This year I was alone for thanksgiving. My other Grandmother has cancer. More or less, terminally ill. My mother wants to fly to be with her post-op. My grandma is too selfless to ask for this but I want for both of them to have one another in that time. I am poor. My family is poor. I told my mom I don’t want to go home for thanksgiving after talk about the cost of plane tickets, grandma, and lack of resources. I was happy to do so if it helped out. The holdisay means very little to me. Today I thought I Want Out, a thought that hasn’t passed through my mind in a long time. I am tired. What gets me is that I don’t care that I am alone, I care that I don’t care: I do not love anyone enough to care that I am alone today, I am not attached to anyone enough to care that I am alone today, and I want out of this dumbass game. I am tired. Thanksgiving and death, intrinsically intertwined, and I don’t care.