The Best of My Love

Massachusetts

There’s comfort in my mom’s homemade cookies and my dad’s cooking. The sound of a song I’ve heard countless times. Dad will start singing, and I’ll sway from left to right before joining in for at least one chorus.

The Best of My Love - The Eagles

A classic!

People might call me crazy or say things that are even worse. I’d be lying if I said the thought doesn’t hurt a little bit. Yes, it does cost a bit of obscurity to pursue a dream.

Thanksgiving Day has come to an end, and I never want to forget the way my dad points to a cloudy day on a drive. We laugh when Apollo lets the sun break through, just in time to shine playfully in our eyes. He’ll fret over whether the turkey will turn out dry, but it’ll be cooked to perfection. Like every year since I can remember, he’ll ask if I want to taste test the gravy, and he’ll ask what’s missing. This year I said Honey and he said Salt. With just a few dashes, it’ll end up perfect.

My mom will take me for a walk after lunch, and she’ll point out the houses with dates from the 1700s,

“The British are coming!”

She’ll ease my mind as she tells me about her friends and will update me on both of my grandmothers. We’ll chuckle at my dad’s few requirements for the house: the kitchen & the garage. She’ll ask him to participate in baking the mini apple pies with us, an activity my sister often led. We’ll call her and her husband when dinner is ready to tell them we miss them.

As my mom reminded me of our ancestors and as my dad continued to keep the time, I know it will not be like this forever, and I couldn't care less what they say as long as I write these down somewhere. I had given up writing for far too long and was certainly not going to stop now that I was free.

Written with Honey