Then my grandparents started to die off.
And so did Thanksgiving traditions.
Then I moved away, and Thanksgiving had even less tradition for me.
I celebrated with various people through the years.
Chicago, New York, Orlando.
But I rarely went back home.
When Roger and I started officially dated, it was only a few weeks before Thanksgiving.
Although we called each other, I celebrated with an old friend from New York and her family in West Florida.
Roger celebrated with his sister and mom here in Orlando.
That was their tradition.
His mom and sister would travel to Orlando.
Roger would make the turkey.
Other people from his family would come to his house.
He was the tradition for Thanksgiving.
By the following Thanksgiving, we were engaged.
Roger cooked the turkey.
I helped with the sides.
I was excited.
It was time for a new tradition.
Thanksgiving was ours.
I was happy.
It felt perfect.
The following year, Thanksgiving 2007, I bought the roasting pan for the turkey.
I convinced Roger it was a good investment.
Instead of buying the disposable aluminum turkey pans, we would have a real pan.
It was on sale and in seven to eight Thanksgivings it would have paid for itself.
We were being green.
We had his cousin and his wife over for Thanksgiving.
And their four girls.
And Roger's sister and his mom.
And Roger and me.
In the new house.
Roger's mom prayed for little pitter patter of feet.
Not just of the cats.
But Thanksgiving is not at my house anymore.
Not last year.
Not this year.
The pan was used just the one time.
One fucking time.
No one comes to my house for Thanksgiving anymore.
I had a Thanksgiving tradition.
Now I am back to being a nomad.
Trying to figure out where I will be for this holiday.
Or the next.
Trying to find my place again.
I feel tradition-less again.