“Honey, we all sure miss you and Joey. We wish you were home with us for Thanksgiving…”

The last time I was home was seven years ago, black Friday. I flew out of Newark on a red eye non-stop to Portland to be with my father, who was dying. It was said by many, that he held on to the last gasp of life, for me and my son to get home to him. My father was in the last stages of renal failure, and refused dialysis. And as I boarded the 4 a.m. flight with my then 8 year old son, I smiled weakly at the flight attendants who warmly received us, wishing us a pleasant flight … you know the greeting. I found our seats, heaved our carry-on into the overhead bin and winked at my son, who was wide-eyed and excited to go see Grandpa before he went to Heaven, as he put it. I sank into my seat, sighed heavily and closed my eyes. Please God, I prayed, Don’t take him until we get there. Please let me say goodbye. Let Joey say goodbye. The engines of the jet roared to life and the cabin hummed around us. The flight attendants did their safety speech and I watched and nodded along and heard none of it. My mind was 3000 miles to the west, and I drummed my fingers impatiently on the armrests. Come on … let’s go. Let’s go. I was now in a fierce game of Beat the Clock, trying to get to Dad’s side before the sand in his hourglass ran out. The plane started down the runway, and began to pick up speed for the ascent. Let’s go. Go. Go. I reached over and took Joey’s little hand in mine. The overhead lights flickered…the fasten seat belt lights came on, the overhead bins rattled and the high-pitched whine of the engines filled my ears. Hurry. Come on. The plane thrust forward at high speed and we were airborne, climbing. Faster. Hurry. Hurry. Hang on Dad. Hold on. We’re coming, Dad. Don’t you leave us yet. We’re on our way. “Mommy…” Joey interrupted my thoughts with his soft voice, “Ouchie, Mommy. You’re squishing my hand.” Startled, I loosened my grip and kissed his little fingers and kissed his forehead. I glanced out the window at the lights of New York City as we climbed up and away. We’re coming home, Dad. We’ll be there soon. You wait. You wait for us. We’ll be home soon.

Thanksgiving was yesterday, and Joey and I were invited to spend Thanksgiving with my boyfriend’s family. His brother’s in-laws hosted, and it was as warm and lovely as any dinner I have ever been blessed enough to attend. John, my boyfriend of four years, has always been more than generous with his time and his family, and as the years have gone by, his family has also been as generous with me and my son. Last night’s dinner was another glowing example of their generosity, to insist that Joey and I attend; not to placate us or because they felt bad that I have no family here, but because they wanted us there. That sentiment was not lost on me, and I appreciated the warmth extended. I like these people, very much. They are so much like my family, and remind me so much of my family, that I must believe that God sent them to me. But throughout the night, I admit that my mind drifted away to another time zone, where my family was gathering in their homes, laughing, telling stories, bragging about who made mom’s turkey best. Mom is also in heaven, with Dad, and I miss them both with an ache. But time marches on, and so must we…and so I have. My phone buzzed hour after hour; texts from home, wishing us a happy Thanksgiving.

As we sat at the table, I looked around at this beautiful family. John, his parents, two of his brothers and their wives, and their children. John’s sister in law, her parents, her brother and his son. My son. My Joey, now a tall and very handsome 15 year old young man. He was wearing my father’s tie, very proudly, and I caught him smoothing it with his hand, many times. He felt close to his grandfather, wearing his tie. He was seated next to me, and I studied his profile as he happily chatted with his table mates. My God, is he handsome. When did he turn into a young man? Dad’s tie rested against his broad chest and I wondered what shirt dad wore with that tie. My thoughts were interrupted by someone asking me about my family…my home…when was the last time I was home. I smiled and answered, telling them that my last time home was to see my father, revealing that I made it home in time to say goodbye and bury him with the love and respect he deserved. I didn’t tell them that I was holding him in my arms as he passed away, that I watched his lips part as he drew his last breath, or that my son kissed his cheek in his last hour on earth, telling him to go find Grandma, because she’s waiting for him. I was again lost in thought, transported back to Dad’s bedside, when he was alive and Joey was a little boy, and all of my siblings were gathered around his bed. This was also the last time I had seen them. And on this night, they were all texting me from home. Home.

The chatter and laughter floating around the table brought me back, and in an instant I realized that I was home. This was home. I have made my life fulfilling and happy and God had blessed me, as He always will. I realized that I was blooming where I was planted and my son is thriving and I am, in every single way…home.

My mother used to say that where you have your babies and raise them, is where you will call home. It has taken me years to realize it, but I have been home for Thanksgiving. This is home and the people that God has brought into my life are family. Life not only goes on, but it gets better. I am home.