Gratitude at a Crowded Table

Our Thanksgiving table is never big enough. We borrow chairs from the neighbors, a folding table from the church, and somebody always ends up on a piano bench. This year we were twenty-two people, three languages and one very confused dog.

Before we eat, my grandmother asks everyone to say one thing they are thankful for. The little ones say things like "my scooter" and "mac and cheese." My uncle always says "the Giants," even when they lose. My grandmother always says the same thing: "That we are all here."

When I was a teenager I rolled my eyes at that. Now I understand it. Every year somebody new has joined: a baby, a fiancé, a friend with nowhere else to go. The circle keeps getting wider.

We could have had a quiet dinner. Instead we have elbows in our ribs and gravy on the tablecloth, and I wouldn't trade it for anything in the world.