by Alison Buckholtz
I remember the year we celebrated Thanksgiving on a Sunday evening in October. It was the fall of 2007, the night before my husband, Scott, left for his seven-month deployment on an aircraft carrier. Other military wives, far more seasoned than I, gave me the idea to whip up one giant festive dinner to mark all of the holidays, birthdays, anniversaries, and milestones that my husband would miss while his squadron was in the Persian Gulf. It was a long list: Thanksgiving, Hanukkah, Ethan’s fifth birthday, Estee’s third birthday, and our wedding anniversary, to list just a few.
I wasn’t sure how to handle such a significant meal, so I started with dessert, ordering the most elaborate, celebration-neutral sheet cake Costco had to offer. If nothing else, I knew the kids would love the icing-filled multicolored balloons, and I hoped the three of us would be able to float on their sugary ballast for a few days after the farewell. For dinner, I made some sort of chicken dish in the crock pot. I wrapped gifts for Scott to give the kids, and hid them under the couch.
I’d been tutored on how to handle the menu, the presents, and the general sense of occasion but not the emotion. Because it wasn’t, of course, a celebratory meal; it was a sad goodbye. (Once I jokingly called it “the last supper,” but the horrified look on Scott’s face reminded me that gallows humor is just that.) The chicken emerged from the pot simultaneously salty and tasteless. Our speeches on what we were grateful for sounded like we were trying too hard, and our birthday songs to the kids echoed, to me, an ancient dirge. At the end of the meal, Ethan and Estee blew out the candles on the cake, smiling and happy. But the knot in my throat kept me silent.