Remember, this

This year, Thanksgiving dawned right around the time it always does, and I found myself in NJ, spending the day in the bosom of my family.  As the day rolled on, as I listened and observed, I thought about how when you're far away, you forget the little things that define the family you've always known.

And so, I found myself saying: 

Remember, this.

Remember the thoughtfully set table,

that dissolves into chaos without much provocation.

Remember the hilarity of the ever-present chatter, the insightful commentary of the cousin, the exclamations of my mother, 

the quiet smiles of my father,

the antics of the uncle and the giggles of the aunt,

the adorableness of our feisty little grandma 

and the booming laughter of the uncle eldest.

 Remember the food that speaks of us,

 the stuffing my mother snitches, the mashed potatoes we never eat, the pearled onions that are the legacy of the grandfather we miss, the butternut squash always added onto the menu by grandma just for me, even the pickle tray that used to speak of homemade pickles and now just speaks of memories;

the famous pumpkin pie originated by our great-grandmother, the extravagant graham-cracker-cream that originated somewhere we can never remember but always have to discuss.  

Remember the old stories that we tell,

and how we crack ourselves up;

 how we're Jersey in our bones, 

with our 'sawce' and our 'cuppa' coffee,

how we douse our cuppa with softened ice cream.

 Remember the napping of the men,

 and the fierce competitions in the lazy afternoon, 

after the table's been cleared and the kitchen cleaned, 

 while we wait for round two;

Remember round two: turkey sandwiches that we must eat no matter how full, pie, more coffee, more talking, more laughing, more loving being together.

Remember what makes us, remember what keeps us.
Remember, this.