Thanksgiving Dinner

By Kristen Bergman

“Why don’t we all go around the table and say what we’re thankful for?” My closest cousin, Dana, said at Thanksgiving dinner. My family sat around the dining room table, plates filled with food, glasses filled with wine.

Every other year, my family spends Thanksgiving with my father’s family. My grandmother, known affectionately as Nana, lives in a house right behind mine in Haverhill, Massachusetts. Nana prepares for the extravagant meal weeks in advance, always making sure there is something for everyone. Green bean casserole, sweet potatoes, turkey, cranberry sauce, butternut squash, eggnog. There was so much food on the table we could hardly fit our plates.

“I’m thankful that we’re so fortunate to have such a hearty Thanksgiving meal,” my seventeen-year-old brother, Nils, said.

“Peace, love and happiness,” six-year-old Victoria said.

My father’s family has been through a lot over the years. Of the three children in his family, he is the only one whose marriage has lasted. His father had a form of muscular dystrophy and passed was in 2004, which was very difficult for our family. He spent the last six years of his life in hospitals, but he never complained.

My grandfather, whom we called Poppa, sat at the head of the table. The year after he passed away, my grandmother set his spot at the table and the chair was left unoccupied. In the following years, my father, the oldest of the three children, has sat in Poppa’s spot.

“I am grateful for our family, how far we have come over the years, and we’re still sitting around the table enjoying this meal together,” I said, looking around at my family. Memories flooded over me as I realized how everyone was older, the gaps in-between family gatherings growing larger.

“I’m happy we are here with you all for Thanksgiving. The first of many,” my Aunt Gina said. She and my Uncle Eric were married in October, making her the newest addition to the family.

My little cousins were laughing and talking about video games, while we all talked about past holidays. The simple act of sitting around a table, talking with the people I had known all my life, stirred something in my mind. I thought about all of our experiences, how we all came together, knowing different things but coming from the same.

“This is for Poppa,” my mom said, raising her wine glass.

My father looked at her in awe, in admiration. My whole family toasted to my Poppa, and I know that he was there with us.