A series of short stories woven together by the theme of the turtle and the rabbit, and their search for love.
“I love you.” The memory of the words uttered just months before brought a smile to her face—and moments later, when the smell of turkey wafted through the dining room, two little ones popped into the kitchen with complaints of hungry pangs.
“Dinner will be served soon, my darlings,” she said as she slipped her gloved hand into the oven to pull out the golden-brown bird.
“But Grandma, we’re staaaarving!” they pleaded.
“I know,” she said, pulling both of her grandchildren into her still-strong arms and planting their foreheads with kisses. “Why don’t you go call your fathers and tell them to come up?” She added, patting their behinds as they raced out of the kitchen to see who could reach the basement first.
Her daughter, a spitting image of herself at that age, the age she met her husband, walked over and placed a gentle hand on her mother’s back.
“You okay, Mom? Why don’t you go sit down? I’ve got the rest,” Anaïs said, worried about her mother doing too much in her condition.
“I’m fine, sweetheart,” her mother insisted. Anaïs knew better than to argue with her bull-headed mother, and grabbed a handful of cutlery to set the table with.
In no time, they were all standing around the table, holding hands in preparation for the blessing of the meal.
“Who wants to say grace?” Anaïs’ husband asked as a flurry of tiny hands went up in the air.
“Noah, how about you, since you’re the eldest grandchild?” Grandma interjected. It wasn’t that she thought he should say grace just because he was the eldest, but also because he was her husband’s namesake.
Noah stuck his tongue out at his cousin before any adult could see and began to bless the food.
Anaïs sat next to her mother, in the spot where her father usually sat. This was their first Thanksgiving without him and she wanted to care for her mother more than ever now. Her brother and she exchanged glances and he rose to carve the turkey; symbolically taking over his father’s role.
Dinner was pleasant enough, and when the women returned to the table with dessert—fresh-baked apple pie, their mom’s famous pineapple-upside-down cake and Arabian coffee—they began their usual tradition of saying what they were thankful for.
“Oo oo me me!” little Noah called out his hand extended in the air, always the eager one. “I am thankful that Grandma is still alive,” he said in the tactless way that is only acceptable of a seven-year-old child.
Everyone looked at Grandma to see how she would react, and she smiled and hugged Noah.
“So am I, Noah,” she indulged him. “So am I.”
Everyone else around the table took turns telling each other what they were thankful for, and when it was their mother’s turn, she cleared her throat.
“I am thankful for love ... for the love this family has shared over the years. I am thankful for every moment your father and I had together, and even though he isn’t here in the flesh, I know he’s here in spirit, and for his love, I am eternally grateful,” she said with the strength and elegance that was inherent to her. Then she reached under the table to pull out two gold-wrapped boxes with big, elaborate purple bows. Anaïs smiled, knowing her mother all too well. Presentation was everything to her, and even if the boxes had contained dirt, she knew her mother had taken the time to make them look as beautiful as possible.
“These are for Noah and Nyemadi,” she said handing the boxes to the eager children. “My two favorite grandchildren!”
“But Grandma, we are your only grandchildren,” Noah corrected his droopy brown eyes and quick tongue so much like his grandfather’s.
