Bittersweet Thanksgiving

This year the table felt different,

like the air had shifted just a little,

soft around the edges, heavy in the middle

a holiday stitched together

with gratitude and grief in the same thread.

I smiled because I was supposed to,

because tradition says to gather and give thanks,

but my heart kept drifting

to the quiet corners

where the ache sits and waits

for moments just like this.

There were laughs, yes

warm ones that rose like steam

from the dishes passed hand to hand.

And I held them close

because they reminded me

that joy still shows up

even when I don’t feel ready.

But there were empty spaces too,

places at the table

no one spoke about

but everyone felt

those invisible chairs holding memories

that don’t stop coming back

just because it’s a holiday.

So I carried both

the sweetness of being surrounded

by love, by food, by the rhythm of family,

and the bitterness that dug its nails

a little deeper this year.

And somehow

the mix of it all

made the day real

a Thanksgiving where my heart

didn’t pretend to be whole,

where it simply beat through the ache,

grateful for what it had,

grieving what it missed,

and surviving the space in between