I cried as my parents and I drove by the creek on the way to my Grammie’s house for Thanksgiving. I gazed out my window at that creek. Feeling the tears welling in my eyes, I was mesmerized by the sight of it. It was dried up and lifeless. There were no turtles swimming about, but in their place was a slew of mushy, slimy, vegetation. The railings that I used to sit on and swing my legs were rusting out and looked as though they could no longer support the weight of a single dragonfly anymore. The thought of how this spot used to be mine and my Grampie’s wrenched my heart because not only had I lost him… but I had lost our spot, too.
When I was little I used to sit on the bank of that creek searching for turtles. I would anxiously wait for my Grampie to drive by in his battered blue pick-up truck after work. As my Grampie drove by he would honk the horn and then come out of his truck to pick me up, throw me in the air, and catch me. He would always plop me in the bed of his truck with my Grammie and then drive us to the house right down the street for some clay fun; watching him make giraffes that looked like sea monsters made me giggle no matter what.
My parent’s continued past the creek and we were off to the house where my family would be clattering around, getting ready for my Grammie’s enormous amount of food. She never seems to take into account that we are short an extremely big eater now. As soon as the food came out of the stove, my Grammie always takes my hands and says, “Would you like to start the thanks for us?” I of course accepted the task, knowing that this was at one point my Grampie’s job. In a circle, my family stood in silence to say their private thanks and prayers. For the past few years, I have stood in between my mother and my Uncle, but I can remember a time when it was his hands I felt. They were callused from his job painting and molding ceramics and they were warm from the stove having pulled out the turkey just a few seconds earlier.
When my Grammie finally decides we can relax and enjoy the food, no one seems to notice the presence that I feel. It’s like I can sense him sitting in the seat next to me, listening to all the conversations, and stealing bites from my plate because he doesn’t want to go get more. I always dismiss the feelings the best I can so that I can enjoy my holiday with family. Every Thanksgiving I have to fight back the tears around every corner because, despite my Grammie’s best efforts to get rid of everything of his, he is still everywhere. In the backyard there is the boat house where he kept all his molds and unfinished projects, there are the Thanksgiving and Christmas decorations that he made with his initials painted on them in a charcoal grey paint, and there is always the closet. That closet in the middle of the house contains all of his jackets and it hadn’t been opened since the day he died.
Every Thanksgiving, I experience the same feeling of loss and emptiness. I can’t let it show around everyone else for fear of upsetting my Grammie because she didn’t get the nickname “Faucet-Face” for nothing. However, in the car and at home, my dad is there. He is the only person that I can tell that I miss Grampie. He will comfort me whenever I need it and even cry with me on occasion.
That deserted and empty creek will forever symbolize the loss of my Grampie. Hopefully, one day in the future I will fulfill the desire I have had since the first Thanksgiving without him: to go sit on the bank of that creek, with no one but his spirit, and search for turtles.