Thanksgiving Day, 1985
by Sharon E. Crowley
If you're riding in a Plymouth Volare
along the Ohio Turnpike On Thanksgiving Day, 1985,
With your forehead pressed against the cold window
While field after field of cropped cornstalks rolls by
Under a flat gray sky,
And your brother is driving,
And he's ten years older than you are,
And you're on your way from Brooklyn
To your home in Grand Rapids, Michigan,
With two of your sisters bickering
in the back seat
While your oldest sister is still in Brooklyn
With a machine doing her breathing,
And your parents are there too,
Massaging her curled fingers,
And you're hungry,
Stop at the Howard Johnson's Oasis,
And wait in line.
Take an orange plastic tray,
A set of stamped steel utensils,
And a paper napkin
While a skinny blonde man
With smudged glasses
And a hairnet over his ponytail
Places slices of pressed turkey loaf
Beside lumps of instant mashed potatoes,
And ladels thin gravy over the mess.
Take the plate,
The hard roll he hands you
And a couple of pats of butter.
Slide your tray along the stainless steel bars
While the little kid in front of you
Who smells like a shitty diaper
Hugs his father's leg
And stares up at you.
Take a slice of apple pie
From the array of desserts
Add it to your tray,
And the pie will of have a dollop of aerosol topping
Already on it.
Give a ten dollar bill
To the lady behind the cash register.
She will give you three dollars back
And a paper cup with Coke in it.
You can find an empty table
beneath a plastic philodendron
And wait for three of your siblings
While a Muzak version of "L.A. Woman"
Issues from hidden speakers.
You don't have to say grace before eating.
Nobody needs to say anything during the entire meal,
But your sister Jan might talk,
She might say it's not over
Until the fat lady sings.
Roll your eyes at Jan,
She's been repeating that cliche
For four days now,
Ever since a tweed-coated neurologist
Explained about flat-line EEG's
And the gag reflex.
Block everything from your mind,
Press your eyes closed, and
Imagine Ella Fitzgerald's wailing
Sweating brown face,
Puffed-up hands gripping a microphone,
And a red sequined dress stretched tight
Over her boobs and his
Your parents will be home next week.
Your father is going to pick out
The most expensive, silk-lines, oak casket he can find,
And hundreds of people,
Flower arrangements
And potted plants will come.
Your family will receive a personal note from Peter Uberroth
Because your dead sister wrote
Sports for the Associated Press.
Your family will ride together
In a black limousine
And stand around the oak box
In a room at the Catholic cometary
While it snows for the first time that year.
If you follow these steps,
You will remember
The taste and texture
Of pressed turkey loaf with gravy
For at least twelve years,
And your gag reflex will be just fine.