Thanksgiving

Doesn't feel like Thanksgiving at all.
If we were home, the turkey would be roasting in the oven now, filling the house with its aroma. TV would be on, with football on its way.
The boys would be lying around the living room, waiting for the big chow-down, on their lap-tops, listening to their iPods -- the usual. Lots of Thanksgivings, we had guests. My husband and I would both be off work, in the kitchen.
Instead, I'm here alone in our kitchen, writing to you. My husband's at work. And my son's at his internship.
I could've done it myself, mind you. I mean I'm off, so I could've cooked a turkey and the three of us could've had it when they got home from work. My husband's coming home pretty early today, too, so he could've still done a lot of it, which he does brilliantly. (The Brits are amazing at roasting. That's their thing.)
But when my son said some young Americans from work had invited him to go out with them to a Thanksgiving do and did we mind if he went because he kinda fancied it, we really didn't.
But when he set off this morning in his football jersey (yes, he wore a Redskins jersey to work. But I think it's okay, because it is an American company, and Thanksgiving is nothing without football, as every American knows), the memories of Thanksgivings past came flooding back.
He was all excited though. At 23, you do not get bogged down by nostalgia. At least he doesn't.
And he knows people in the office will be talking to him just because he's wearing it. Which is always kinda fun. He can talk about the Redskins all day -- and how shitty they're playing this year.
My husband and I might go have sushi tonight.
It's our anniversary, if you can believe that. At least the one we celebrate. The day we met, and started dating.
31 Thanksgivings ago today.
My God. What we've been through.
He didn't know what Thanksgiving even was that day. He just got invited by an American woman we both knew and turned up in the evening, hours beyond when we ate, with a bunch of other people prepared for some big American "nosh-up," as he says.
Most of the food was gone by the time he got there.
But I was still there.
31 years.
An eternity.
Our entire lives.
And this has been our hardest year.