Thanksgiving hovers in the distance, waiting for a cadre of preparations to usher it in. The dogs, banished to the family room a week ago, are whining. I buy them extra bones, sit with them in the evenings, but otherwise hold my ground. Dehairing the house is a process, not a last minute detail. I hear my husband sympathizing with them in the mornings, telling them it’s not his fault, it’s the woman. So we’re back to the Garden of Eden once again. One cat was banished to the barn for her various unrepented sins in the sacred realm of the kitchen. She has been ostracized, which Pete Seeger said means forced to live on the edge of town.
Grandma is rubbing lemon oil into our furniture with the remnants of a torn diaper. Her mind has unraveled important connections, like the desirability of bathing, but her hands hold and release residual memories of cleaning polish and rags. Before Thanksgiving morning, we'll polish her up, too. The winds in the house blow puffs of Pine-Sol and Windex before settling into deeper, more earthy tones. Candied ginger boils slowly in the kitchen, giving way to simmering chicken stock for the turkey to bathe in.
Life flows in and out of all these preparatory duties, saturating our senses. We’re making memories, someone said.