“We do not change as we get older; we just become more clearly ourselves.”*

I hope that is how I’m living. I hope that I’m becoming more clearly myself, rather than going down the path that isn’t wholly me. How can we tell? Is our life planned out for us, written in permanent marker? Or do we have the pencil, allowing us to draw/erase our own path? Are we genetically pre-determined, some higher being knowing just what we’ll become?

Thanksgiving was once my favorite holiday. It still is, in some ways, but it doesn’t have that same ring to it. It isn’t something I look forward to (anymore), nor is it something I dread. It just is. The last Thanksgiving I spent with my paternal grandparents (together) was in 2003. It’s been six years, and really, has it been that long? Has it taken me six years to come to a point where I can say, “I’m okay. I can breathe through it”? I’ve spent six years holding my breath through holidays, holding back tears. Even just last year, I wanted to crawl in a hole and let the holidays pass by me. What has changed? Have I become more wholly myself?

Granny and I always made the stuffing together. The last year she was alive, before she knew it would be her last Thanksgiving, she let me make the stuffing on my own, showing me that I could do it … That I was old enough, finally, to take something on without her. Little did I know that I would soon have to take on life without her … But I have been, and I will continue to do so. (Without her physically, at least.)

When she was diagnosed with lung cancer in May of 2004, I was already prepared. I knew it was coming one day. Afterall, she had smoked for decades. What I wasn’t prepared for was the day she wouldn’t beat it, just three months later. I don’t blame her, though. She didn’t just give up.  She was ready, and her body was tired of fighting. She fought long enough to show me the true meaning of life–to love wholly and to live without regrets.

So, this Thanksgiving, I will enjoy it without regretting that my Granny (and Pawpaw, her husband) are no longer here. On my 21st birthday (in just less than a week), I will love wholly and be thankful for another year of life. If she were alive today, she’d pass me a beer; knowing I’m not a fan of beer, she’d say, “Try it, Meg … because you may not have a chance tomorrow.” So, in honor of her, I might tip one back, unwillingly, and with the blue sparkle in my eye that matches hers, I will continue to live without regrets–becoming more clearly myself.

*I’m unsure where this quote comes from. Ironically, it was in a spam comment on my blog.

I am eight. I’m running through the yard, my feet kicking Florida sand up behind me. I dart through the gardenia bushes, the smell surrounding me. I take it in. I’m not me; I’m channeling my inner Native American. Pocahontas, if you will. I run barefoot over sticks and leaves and rocks, through the afternoon sunshine. I hide behind the trees, singing. I pretend I am in another land, someone else.

I am twelve. I sit in front of the television, watching endlessly. I talk back to my parents. I roll my eyes and wear makeup. I look at boys, and I gossip about girls. I walk by the gardenia bushes, forgetting their beautiful smell. I ignore the trees, calling for me. I want to grow up.

I am sixteen. I write poetry. I lose faith in God; I gain my faith back. I long for the future. I don’t walk by the gardenia bushes because they don’t seem to grow anymore. I’ve forgotten the voice of the trees. Granny is dead. Pawpaw dies. I feel like I face the day alone. I wish the future would come.

I am twenty. I work full-time. I study when the time is free. I wake up in my own house. There are no gardenia bushes outside and no time to listen to the trees. The Florida sand is long gone, and so is the house that I grew up around. We’re all in the future–the future we wished would come quickly.

I wish I were eight.

[part of a look at the past]