Thanksgiving Narrative

It was the last Thanksgiving that my grandparents were there for. How could we ever expect them to be, they slept in small cases underneath the grass. Nonetheless it was merry, still filled with so much “family” that I had never met and I still flinched at the words, “do you remember me?” that parted from unrecognized lips. There was Aunt Helen’s famous apple pie, and the six turkeys, and the dogs running around in the backyard.
I loved Thanksgiving because it was normal. It was the one holiday my family performed in the stereotypical manner. My grandfather was the ringleader of this tradition. His jocularity allowed for an aura of love and happiness, and so did his children, and the children of his children. We were the missionaries of bliss.
We had a new puppy. She leaped and bounded, her black fur submerging under seas of white, soon to pop up again. My mother and I clunked up the steps, almost instantly to be greeted at the door by my cousins. Hugs were exchanged as we entered. It was the last time I saw my grandmother’s distinguishable fur coat amongst others.
The light that filled the house had a buttery, homely glow. Little boys too young to have known loss ran about the house with plastic toys. I wandered around, dodging relatives I did not feel like greeting. The beginning was the worst part for me, it seemed to be five million different people that seeking me out to discuss solely my high school admission process gets tiring after about the seventh time saying, “It’s stressful, but I’ll get through it.” I made my way towards the TV room, seeking solace in my cousin's roars.
They all clustered around the TV, football players reflecting in the glass of their eyes. “Hey! We should play a game!” my cousin Bo said. Rob ran downstairs to get the
“Today, we will be playing the glorious game of flag football. We’re gonna have two teams, Mike and I will be captains.” I didn’t even want to play, but the thought of missing out nagged me until I finally surrendered. Terrified of the men towering heads above me, I clung to my father for the entirety of the game. Then, there was the ball. It soared, a clean throw arching against darkening skies. I could see it. I could almost touch it. And then it was there, it was in my arms! I had the ball! I tore up the field, my boots slipping on wet turf and melted snow. The tacklers advanced, closing in, but somehow missing me by inches… I knew they were allowing me to score, but it didn’t matter; I was too busy marveling at the fact that I had caught the ball.
Food wafting from the house carried us back home. Laughter circulated us. We were the league and we had just won. I got out the small camera that my aunt had mistakenly designated me with. It was then my duty to document every person that attended the party with blurry photos. I zoomed in tight on my grandfather's nose. I thought it was hilarious.
“But you’re too close, why don’t you get back and get a real handsome picture of me?” He