Yesterday would have been Thanksgiving. Two years ago, John and I went to his parents' house. Three generations crammed around a table that normally seated four people. His family wasn't terribly large, but they were close.
I used to take it for granted that Thanksgiving would be the same every year. There would always be turkey and gravy and mashed potatoes and bread and butter. Pumpkin pie and tummy aches, long naps and bickering.
But yesterday was just another day, haunted by another death. We ate canned tuna and some crackers. We played solitaire with a deck of cards John found in the bottom of his scavenged backpack. We tried to be close, but . . . well, it's been hard to think about love with the world ending around us. I can't remember the last time we just hugged for no reason.
I don't know why I'm writing this down on the empty internet. It's not like our relationship is the sort of thing people will need or want to know about in the future.
I miss having things to be thankful for, aside from a.) I'm alive, and b.) I'm not totally alone.
