My father and mother sitting at the table after we were done eating Thanksgiving dinner, 1983. My father is 68, my mother is 62. My sister is in the chair to the left holding her youngest daughter, and her older daughter is just visible on the right. I remember every cup and plate on the table, handling them and eating off of them, setting the table, my mother’s favorite blue coffee mug, the frosted highball glasses we used for drinks, the set of wooden posts behind them that divided the two rooms, the draperies and sheers and pendant lamp and more, all those things that weren’t things then, but a part of the everyday life I’d known.
I had just graduated from college in May that year, and bought my camera in October and I remember taking photos that day, happy I could start recording memories. The following year my father was diagnosed with lung cancer and Parkinson Syndrome and or course, everything began to change, as things would have changed even without that. But there is a Thanksgiving.
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