Numb. Like a naked leafless tree in unyielding winter’s cold--present in one sense but absent in another.
Thankful but numb, I am a mix of hard-to-unearth emotions buried deep inside as Thanksgiving nips at my ears like a bitter wind and I peck on the keys of my computer, in between slow sips of coffee on a sun-drenched November afternoon.
I know cognitively that I am grateful: For the gift of life. For the health of family and friends. For clothes on my back. For food on my table. Shoes on my feet.
I hold no bitterness over life’s imperfections. No resentment over sorrows and those unexpected, unavoidable disappointments that belie the human experience: sickness, suffering, death.
God has been good to me.
But I am without detectable emotion. Not sad. Not glad. Numb. Betwixt and between.
I feel stuck, somewhere between this year’s Thanksgiving and Thanksgiving past when visions of turkey and the trimmings and the scent of my grandmother’s cornbread dressing wafted through the house at 5071 W. Van Buren St., on Chicago’s West Side.
Even as I write — and am willing to admit — the previous line, I am struck by a tinge of emotion that I am hesitant to scratch. I am afraid ... Afraid to look into Grandmother’s eyes.
Afraid to walk into the living room, where all my cousins and aunts and uncles have assembled for the Hagler family’s annual Thanksgiving gathering at Grandmother and Grandpa’s house. Afraid to unmute the laughter and chatter. The joy.
I am fearful of the pain, the flood likely to be unveiled. Fearful of being dragged into the abyss of faces no longer present. Hesitant to open the book containing pages of memories seared in living color into my consciousness of the way we were.
I am better off leaving the memories where they are. At least this is the lie I tell myself.
That it is better to let memories lie in storage, like old clothes, somewhere in a basement bin, safely tucked away. Like clothes too special to discard but no longer practical to keep in my daily closet.
Like the gray Italian suit Mama bought me 22 years ago, but which I cannot bring myself to relegate to the basement. I still wear it sometimes. It hugs me. Reminds me that I am Gwen’s son. Makes me feel like Mama is still with me.
Sometimes I look at my shoes — designer, polished and purchased with my own hard-earned money. And I drift upon memories of a time when I could not afford to buy my own, and my one and only pair was cracked and worn.
Back to when Grandpa, a U.S. Post Office letter carrier, sometimes took me into Chernin’s Shoes, down on West Roosevelt Road, and used his postal shoe voucher to buy me shoes.
“Pick out whatever you want, Johnny,” he’d say.
Grandpa’s gone now. Like Mama and Grandmother. Like Dad, and yesterdays, and those family Thanksgivings.
Like the sweet aroma of Mama’s pineapple upside down cake, wafting through our apartment. Like the scent and sizzle of her garlic chicken in a skillet.
Like the look of perfect contentment that spread across Mama’s and Grandmother’s face that had nothing to do with the substance of Thanksgiving dinner. But with God’s substantive provision of those things that money cannot buy: life, health, peace of mind, family.
For all of these, I am grateful. Except as Thanksgiving approaches, I don’t “feel” grateful. I just feel numb.
At least until I begin to reflect on memories of Thanksgiving past. Until I push past my fear of crying tears of joy and also pain.
Email: Author@Johnwfountain.com
