Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday. Halloween with its ghoulish cheer and haunted happiness is a close second, but nothing comes close to the warmth and love I touch on Thanksgiving. And not all of that is because I’m always filled with stuffing.
The first time I celebrated the holiday without my family I was in Texas, living on a farm in the middle of nowhere. I knew relatively little about the women I was living with. I didn’t care to know them. Not because they were bad people – I simply didn’t have the energy to emotionally invest myself into forming new friends. And yet, come Thanksgiving, we all gathered, cooked, baked, and slaved over a four course buffet fit for royalty. It was the first time I had ever tasted green bean casserole. I baked an apple pie that was devoured within the first ten minutes. To this day, I can feel the contentment and calm that followed our feast.
The second time, I was in a small town nestled in the mountains of Idaho surrounded by chaos. There was no turkey, no love, no calm, and too many tears. This was the first month post-trauma: I was a whirling dervish of destruction.
This year might become the third Thanksgiving where I am not with family. But unlike times prior, it will be because of my choice alone. I have learned how to cook all of our favorite foods, right down to the perfect turkey, and can successfully do so in my tiny one-person kitchen. Food is no longer a strong enough draw to lure me from my home. Neither is company, for I live with and among friends in my apartment complex and the tense bickering of family can hardly compare with comfortable laughter. The pull away this time is due to a furry new arrival.
About a month ago, I adopted a cat from one of the many shelters around the city. Peregrin Took, or Perri, has quickly become a core influence on not only my constant thoughts but my unconscious behavior. Soft as a chinchilla with lengthy talons to match, she shines a light on personal barriers I thought I had hidden long ago. She hates being picked up or held but loves to be comforted, as do I. She despises the vacuum, as do I. She is a cautious yet curious problem-solver, as am I. She loves cautiously, as do I. However, those whom she deems worthy gain her eternal affection. Even now as I type she is sleeping next to me. Her constant presence has calmed much of the anxiety, washed away much of the sadness, that has built because of this tumultuous year.
Her nightly purring has allowed my mind to settle at night so I can sleep decently, something I had long ago resigned to never happening again. This is even confirmed by my Fitbit, which has shown that I get about 45 more minutes of sleep than I did prior to her adoption. It may not seem like anything worth celebrating, but when I routinely got less than five hours of sleep, those peaceful extra minutes have been welcomed without question. I could not be more grateful to or for her.
Like most animals, I have a feeling she knows what I have seen, felt, heard, touched. The places that have seen me. The people. The things that I have brushed against and in turn been touched by. And yet she does not care.
In this season of gratitude, I am particularly thankful for Perri.
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