DISCLAIMER: Not even the holiday is mine.
SUMMARY: G. Holiday thoughts.
WORDCOUNT: 511
Improv #7 (74): simmer -- crash -- twelve --
wander
Awesome Chica (Joyce) Award and HaunaKwanzaMas Runner-Up at The Potential Awards
THANKSGIVING '98
by Leni
Mom always told us that the food was better done the day before Thanksgiving. I never
needed to prove her theory; once I had my own home, Hank took us out unfailingly every
year.
But this is the third Thanksgiving he won't be here. Our first girls-only dinner was a
disaster, none of us were prepared for the work that was a decent family night. Last year
Hank took the girls with him, after a couple calls I'll never repeat to my daughters. They
came back happy and gushing about their father, that's all I really wanted. This time it's
my turn again. It'll be perfect. It has to be.
I've let the sauce simmer for what seems hours. Mom was right, had we begun this tomorrow,
it'd be Thanksgiving '96 all over again. I really don't want to go hunting for food this
time. The biggest drawback to living in such a small town is that public locals actually
respect holidays. Even pizza delivery won't deliver on those nights. But tomorrow there
will be no need for them.
Turkey is ready, potatoes peeled (Dawn complained but finished them all before going to
bed), the accompaniements are almost ready (Buffy's friends helped this afternoon, such
sweet kids) and Buffy promised to bring apple pie on her way from school. She did it just
before claiming she had a huge History test next morning and she had to study for it but,
unsurprisingly, there was no light in her room when I went to bed.
Obviously, I couldn't go to sleep anymore. I could only wander back and forth in my room.
Patience never was one of my fortes, not when I couldn't even scream in fear of awakening
Dawn. Had to do something. Like coming back downstairs and preparing the sauce for the
turkey. Mom's words are just an excuse, a very good one that lets me believe in it. But in
truth...
I worry about my daughters, I can't help myself. That's the only reason I can call myself
a mother when I look into a mirror. Dawn is already twelve, pushing and begging to be let
out late at night with her friends. I know I'll have to tell her why I'm so opposed to the
idea. Soon. I don't know how. Buffy is seventeen quickly going on fifty - please let her
be fifty!
Bad thought to have now. I can't think about this. It's Thanksgiving already and it still
feels like a dream that I'll thank heavens that my daughter is still alive, when other
mothers just thank that they're not pregnant and doing well at school. I almost wish...
There's a loud crash upstairs. Then the silence of soft steps I can't hear and the covers
being lifted and then put down over a body.
Finally.
I breathe in relief. I don't know the details. Mr. Giles tried to tell me everything once
but I stopped him. I don't want to know everything.
All that matters is that my daughter is back home.
Buffy is home.
The End.
13/08/04
Feedback is always welcomed.
