Home
Home.
Homesick.
Home sweet home.
No place like home.
Home is where the heart is.
Home is where Momma makes Thanksgiving dinner.
She starts early, while the three of us watch the Macy's parade.
She pulls me away from the TV from time to time to taste the dressing, to try the potato salad, to sample the gravy.
As Snoopy floats down 34th Street, delicious aromas float through the house.
Roast turkey, potatoes, green beans.
Home sweet home.
Home is where friends are always welcome.
There is always room at Momma's table for one more.
Always enough food for everyone.
The door is always open.
To the soldier who won't see his family for Thanksgiving.
To the couple whose children can't visit this year.
To the young mother who struggles to make ends meet.
As guests make their way into the house, dishes make their way out of the oven.
Pecan pie, spice cake, those rolls that come in the little cardboard tray.
Home away from home.
Home is a thousand miles away, where Momma creates culinary masterpieces.
In my kitchen, I hope the recipe turns out like hers.
Her turkey roasts to a golden brown, while my green bean casserole bakes to warm and bubbly.
Her kitchen is warm and inviting, while the smells in my kitchen make me think of her.
I know she thinks of me, while I long to laugh with her, to cook with her, to taste the potato salad.
As the aromas of Thanksgiving drift through the kitchen, my mind drifts down memory lane.
Sweet potatoes, buttered corn, chocolate pie.
Homesick.
Home is just down the street, in the house where my husband spent his childhood.
I sneak glimpses of the parade while preparing the dishes to take to his Momma's for Thanksgiving lunch.
They like my broccoli cheese casserole.
Sisters and brothers, nieces and nephews, kids, toddlers and babies all gather around the table.
She says the blessing and reads a poem.
We eat too much. We laugh a lot. We nap.
As the Cowboys tackle the Eagles, we tackle the dinner one more time.
Ham sandwiches, pasta salad, cranberry sauce.
There's no place like home.
Home is where love is abundant.
Where hugs are free.
Where laughter is all around.
Where Momma taught me about family - about what it means to be home.
As Thanksgiving Day draws to a close, I close the refrigerator one more time.
Leftover turkey, a spoonful of hot hominy, a slice of banana bread.
Home is where the heart is.
