This Thanksgiving, I've had my brothers and sisters on my mind. I don't spend much time considering my relationships with them, and I think that's because they've always just been there, and I know that, no matter the arguments that (still) crop up between us, no matter the petty disagreements, our relationships will always bounce back. Their lives are linked to mine permanently, and as those who met you in the womb have a tendency to do, they know me all ways, the good, the bad, and the ugly (and things can get mighty ugly between siblings).
Tonight I'm giving thanks for them by recounting a favorite memory about each one, an obscure memory that I might not have shared with them before.
It's an early, early Christmas memory. I think I was 3 or 4, but it was definitely pre-Blair. I got a little table and 4 plastic blue chairs, along with a Fisher Price stove and set of pots, pans, and play food. For some reason, we had Christmas in the den, not the living room, and Mom and Dad had set the little table up in the kitchen. You sat and played with me and my new kitchen set for what seemed like hours. I basked in the rare bliss of having your undivided attention, a sister 8 years older who usually had to be begged to play.
I was in 9th grade, and you were home on leave from the Navy. We went out cruising in the Malibu. We drove down this winding road near the river and talked and laughed and got a Slurpee, and you gave me a cigarette, which, yes, wasn't the healthiest or most responsible thing to to, but to me it was a gift of pure, unadulterated acceptance. Suddenly you enjoyed my company, and it made me feel mighty big.
I am grateful to have had all of you for brothers and sisters, and I love you all, always.