Another Thanksgiving without Mom, I thought, picking halfheartedly at my turkey and stuffing. This was a particularly hard holiday since Mom’s death because food and family were her hallmarks.
Mom worked as a short-order cook at the old H.L. Green drugstore in downtown San Antonio. I would grab a seat on one of the big swivel stools, and no matter how busy Mom was behind the counter she’d always stop to hug her “babies” and fix us a grilled cheese or a thick milk shake. Always there with a kiss or a kind word or some little treat to make us smile—that’s the sort of mom she was.
The sort of mom she was, I reminded myself, pushing away my barely touched plate. I need to feel that love again today.
After dinner my husband, Andrew, and I decided to drive to Fort Sam Houston National Cemetery where Mom was buried. I must have been preoccupied with memories of her when I drove right past the entrance to the cemetery.
“Don’t worry,” Andrew said. “Turn in here.” We rounded a corner and saw a big yellow “Garage Sale” sign.
Read More: An Angelic Thanksgiving