After a Thanksgiving dinner of an Italian first course of homemade ravioli, with gravy and braciole, a rolled beef stuffed with cheese, breadcrumbs, and parsley, and then an American second course of turkey, stuffing, and sweet potatoes, followed by a big, tossed salad that’s supposed to help with digestion, my sisters and I lie in front of the fire at the fireplace hearth in Nanny’s livingroom.  In an unhurried way, Nanny, Aunt LaLa, and Mom clear the diningroom table and set-up for dessert as coffee perks in the kitchen, its’ comforting aroma descends, and fills every corner of the house.  Aunts, uncles, and cousins cluster in spots, the way extended family does, ooh-and-ah over a new baby, chat about a new dress, the gossip of Darien, the local high school football team, the snow that’s coming this weekend to New England.  I wait for the heavenly sweets that will soon cover the table.

Grandpa rests in an armchair in the livingroom, takes out his pipe, and sets to watch football on t.v.  Uncle Pippi, who sits next to him, gets up from the turquoise-swirly-floral patterned armchair to attend to a fire that’s petering out.  He steps in between my sisters and me without a word.  We know to move over, make room for him.  I’m on the left side of him and my sisters are on his right.  Barb and Maria play a game of tic-tac-toe, crayons at the ready to draw x’s and o’s, the thrill to come of who draws the winning line.  Donna flips the pages of a teen fashion magazine, searches for that hip look, the right look.

Uncle Pippi bends at the waist, slides open the chain-like curtain that covers the fireplace.  He pokes a log with a fireplace poker, adds a couple of logs, a newspaper roll, then flicks a match and gets the fire going again.  Flames roar, shoot up the chimney, sparks fly.  I watch his face.  He smiles slightly, chews gum as usual, his square-chiseled jaw moves slowly.  He doesn’t look at me, yet, he knows that I’m here, watching him.

I yearn to jump up, kiss his cheek, and hug him tightly.  I love him very much.  I want to do that to Mom and my sisters, too.  I can’t do that.  I’m not taught how to do that.  I just can’t do it.  Physical affection is seldom shown in this family.  I have to find another way to give thanks.  Someday I will.  Thanks that are said, steady, sown.