of turkey, david, tears, dreams...

...so I didn't get to sleep until 4AM. My head was filled with restless images of places to go, worlds to see, all the things we dreamed about. I was exhausted, rummy, turned over onto my side, and stared at the wall. Is this really happening? Does he really want me? How in the world could he want someone like me?

I drifted off into a dreamless coma, waking four hours later. I was tired, but could not sleep. I heard my trailer mate get up and leave for the day, closing the door quietly on her way out. If she knows I'm there, she is considerate and doesn't slam the door-the trailer is so flimsy that the pressure makes the wall next to my bed move.

I got up and made coffee, with some caramel in it, and had two little blueberry muffins. I don't really drink coffee anymore, I still have the same flavored stuff that we were drinking at Al Asad. Still, it is a nice change from tea, and seems to be part of my ritual of staying home these days. Normal day? Tea. Day off? Coffee. The small traditions of a tiny life, I suppose. Grasping something from nothing.

The milk run passed overhead, shaking the hooch. I read a three day old Stars & Stripes that I had been saving just for this occasion. I tried to lose myself in the stories, but as always, the paper contained about two readable articles and a hundred of crap. I finished one cup of coffee, and poured another. The floor of the trailer was icy cold, and when I got back into bed, my feet were frozen. I absently wondered where I had put some really big wool socks that I had purchased at the Grand Bazaar, thinking that I would need to pull them out soon, but dreading the significance of having to pull out winter clothes when I was so sure I would be gone from here by now.

I finished another David Foster Wallace book, have burned my way through just about everything he has written now. Infinite Jest is definitely the best of them, though Supposedly Fun Things has two stories in it that just had me rolling on the floor-one about a cruise, and the other about a trip to the fair in Illinois. Both stories were so true, so real, and I was positively drunk with flashes of recognition. People are so predictable, especially Midwesterners. They seem to all be cut from the same cloth...same ideas, same behavior. We are a nation of wonderful people, so shaped by the land we love.

I tried not to wonder what you were doing, most of the time it was easy since it was still night for you. But toward the end of the day, when I knew you were rising, when I knew you must have been on your way elsewhere, it was hard. I wanted to be with you, wearing a nice dress, drinking a stiff eggnog, visiting people. I wanted to be home, cooking. I wanted to have some memories of this day, but sought deliberately not to see anyone here or have any contact whatsoever. It seemed easier.

I wondered if you were sad at all, thinking that this was your last Thanksgiving with them. I wondered if it had sunken in at all, or if you had just pushed everything out of your mind. I wondered if your emotions were of sadness or relief, or both. I wondered if you had happy anticipation toward what your next Thanksgiving would be, and if it was with me. I tried not to dwell on it.

I read, slept. I spent the whole day answering your emails, and was glad for the distraction. I had wanted to do some needlepoint, but never got around to it. I looked forward to turkey all day; it is odd how important this had become. I felt that the traditions themselves would carry me this year, I had nothing else. There was no one to speak with, nothing to do, no one to call, nowhere to go. I had thought of getting up and going to Lost Lake, the day was nice, but felt a need to not see anyone, not even in passing.

I waited patiently for darkness, then showered and dressed. I debated whether to shave, feeling like the celebration would be nice. But in the end, I was in and out of the shower in ten minutes, and on my way to dinner. It was pitch black, the kind of darkness that I have only seen here in Iraq. No lights, nothing. The ground was uneven and hard to see. The rains had left large ruts in the clay, which had hardened. I stepped gingerly, tripping, cussing, trying not to fall on my holiday ass.

The darkness was punctuated only by the sounds of generators and the bright lights at the back of the DFAC. The lights had a halo around them in the cold air, the brightness almost artificial, abrupt, too large to grasp. There was a line out of the DFAC, I was momentarily startled, not knowing whether the line was a result of the holiday meal or now normal with the huge amount of soldiers that have arrived. This was the first time I had gone over at dinner time since the last time we had eaten there in May. It felt odd.

There are t walls all over the entrance now, and four soldiers guard the entry. We slowly filtered into the entry. This is a new group, and they come with their own rules. I am annoyed at the inconsistency, but am used to it. They want to see both sides of my badge, so I have to stop and remove it from the pouch. The soldier looks at the badge, then looks up at me. I feel a flash of anger, as though there is an accusation somewhere in his inspection of me. He waves me by, and I place the badge back in the pouch. As I look up, I am hit in the head with a hanging paper turkey just outside the door.

There is a crowd washing their hands, and we are backed up out the door. When I finally walk into the DFAC, I nearly walk smack dab into a huge cake parked at the entrance, complete with a woman in a pilgrim's outfit standing next to it. I look at her, slightly puzzled, and wonder if she is annoyed to have to wear the outfit that day. She seems not to be, and is chatting with several soldiers. I take my place in line, but cannot find the to go containers. They are usually in the front of the DFAC now, under guard, believe it or not. TCNs can't have them. Civilians can only have two. Soldiers can have three. A man with a gun hands them to you.

I stay in line, looking around the room. Could they have gotten rid of them, forcing us to all eat inside the DFAC in some sort of forced holiday cheer? The line is moving forward, and I start to panic. I do not want to stay in here and eat. I do not want to have to eat alone. I do not want to have my solitude puncture me like a knife. I quickly leave the line, walking up to the front, asking for the to go containers. I am amazed at how panicky I feel.

The little Indian man points me to the back of the DFAC, just behind the giant cake, next to the pilgrim lady. I am slightly annoyed, taking comfort in knowing where everything is, only to have them move it all around. I walk back to the back, and request one from the man with a gun. He hands me one. I think I see suspicion in his eyes. Or maybe boredom.

Back in line, clutching my container, I look around the room. There are fifty hanging turkey decorations. There are brown streamers everywhere. Each table is covered in a paper cloth with Happy Thanksgiving on it. The walls have streamers and turkeys and pilgrims and flags. The room is lined with tables with turkeys carved from vegetables, flowers carved from melons, pilgrims carved from ice. At the head of the room is a giant helmet with a giant gun next to it, carved from what appears to be butter. It is five feet tall, and slightly melted. I smile, thinking that this is a lot better than Al Asad was with its one bent paper turkey sadly hanging at the dining room entrance. But for all the decorations, I would have returned to in a moment if it meant being with you again. I feel a sadness creeping in.

The line moves slowly. I smell no turkey roasting. There is an odd absence of smell, and I wonder how it is possible to cook all this food and not have a kitchen wafting with wonderful holiday smells. Several soldiers are wandering around taking pictures, commenting that the folks back home will never believe this. I pause and wonder what part is the part that they won't believe back home. Two soldiers are sitting at the table next to the line already, staring straight ahead at CNN on the TV. They are not even looking at their food, and seem to be eating in nearly perfectly choreographed unison. I wonder if this is something they train them now: how to kill others, and eat in unison. Their guns are neatly stacked on the floor. They look to be no more than 19. I wonder where they come from, and if they actually believe that they will make a difference. Mercifully, they have the boom box that always plays rap music turned off tonight.

As I reach the counter, I look for the turkeys. I see what looks to be chicken breasts, and have to look at the food card to identify the item. The harried Indian man in a pilgrim hat carves me a piece of roast and slaps it into my container before I can say anything, and I point to the chicken breasts, which have been identified as roast turkey on the card. I look at them, they are identical in size, and have what appear to be grill marks on them. They are smeared in gravy. I take two slices. Down the line are mashed potatoes and stuffing, the stuff I always skip when eating. But today is special, so I take a scoop of each and walk to the salad line. I nearly run into another Indian man in a pilgrim hat. I vaguely wonder if anyone explained to him why he has to wear that ridiculous hat today. I figure I know the answer.

I look around for cranberries. Nice, bitter, juicy cranberries. I picture the vat of orange-bourbon cranberries that I make every Thanksgiving, moist, boozy, sweet, tangy. I see only a large tub of what looks to be red jello. Except it isn't jiggling, and I figure that this can't be jello. My visions of cranberries sadly fade confronted with this gelatinous cranberry mound, so I look for the pumpkin pie. There is a line at the pie station, and several types of pies. I cannot tell the pumpkin from the squash, sweet potato, and the myriad of slightly orange desserts that are stacked high. I hand the man a small plastic square plate, requesting pumpkin. He hands me back the plate, with a sliver of something orange. There is no whipped cream. The pie nearly slides off the plate as he hands it to me.

I turn and decide that I need beer. I need something. I take two from the container, and see out of the corner of my eye that they have set up a drink station toward the back of the room, next to the pilgrim lady. It looks like they have something that seems to be cider, and eggnog. I am momentarily excited, thinking that they might actually be serving a drink for the holidays. But I know they won't, so decide to grab two O'Douls and drown my disappointment in 0.5% NA beer, wishing there is some way I could actually drink 30 of them in an hour and get a small buzz.

I head out the door into the darkness. The stars are twinkling. The night is brilliant, getting colder. It is black out, and the only thing that is identifiable is the occasional shadow off in the distance of a Humvee moving through the parking lot. I walk back to the hooch quickly, not wanting to see anyone, not wanting to chat, not wanting to force a smile and a disingenuous holiday greeting.

When I walk into my room, it feels hot. I throw off my jacket and shoes, and change into my nightgown. I turn on the lamp next to the bed, and curl up, cracking open the beer. I take a swig, and it tastes pretty good. Before I know it, half the can is gone, and I suddenly feel like a lush. I pull out a book, and peel the plastic off my fork. I look inside the clamshell at the pile of food. I can't wait to taste the turkey.

The hours I spend planning and cooking each Thanskgiving are my deepest joy. I have no idea why. I have no idea why it is so important to share, to feed, to create. The people that I do this for are rarely thankful, so I guess I really do it just for myself. I like seeing the beauty of the table. I like the smells, the comfort of the kitchen. I like thinking that someday this will be shared with someone who will recognize it for what it is: love. My head fills with memories, some good, some bad. It is now 7PM in Iraq, and I know you are up and traveling to wherever you are going today.

I try to cut into the piece of turkey, being careful to not cut open the styrofoam container. My fork bends. The turkey will not cut. I pick it up with my fingers, and try to pull away some meat. It is tough. I finally wrestle a bite, and try to figure out what the strange taste is. There is a very strange taste to it, one that seems familiar, but I can't place it. It doesn't taste like turkey.

I decide to try the potatoes. There is no gravy on them. I put some butter on them, thinking of the potatoes that I cook: lots of half and half, lots of butter, a hint of garlic and truffle oil. Pure ecstasy. Smooth, hot, rich. Drowning in gravy. It is a celebration, and every dish, even the lowly potato, takes part. There is no mistaking my potatoes with these. I chew for a moment, but the potatoes just disintegrate in my mouth. There is no texture, nothing to chew. They just dissolve. And they have no taste. I can't believe that they have no taste, so I take another bite. I chew, waiting for a hint of something. There is nothing. They have no taste. None. Not even with butter.

I try the stuffing. It looks like Stove Top stuffing that has been pureed. It is all one color of greenish-brown, and has the same consistency as the mashed potatoes. I take a bite. It doesn't taste like stuffing. There is no texture, no burst of sage in the background, no crunch from celery, no earthiness from pine nuts. As tasteless as it is, it seems slightly better than the potatoes.

I return to the meat. The slice of rib looks tender. I take a taste, pulling it apart with my fingers so I don't cut the bottom of the container and have it leak on my sheets. I have been issued only one set of sheets. It is important to keep them clean. The rib is tasty, tender, and slightly salty. I am thankful, but can't surrender my dreams of turkey. I take another bite. That's it. I taste the lingering smell of frozen crab, and remember that they had the turkey in the steamer next to the crab legs, which are visually exciting but always inedible. As I pull apart another piece of turkey, it rips in strands. This is pressed turkey. I look at it closely. There are slight grill marks, but they are the kind that manufacturers put onto frozen meat to convey the fun deliciousness of a summer BBQ. I taste it again, and burst into tears.

You are wherever you are going by now, and I picture you laughing, talking, drinking. I know that you are unhappy, but figure that you have put on a good face, and are having a good time. I know you are sitting down to a nice roast turkey with all the trimmings. I feel alone, left out, abandoned. I want so much for you to call, but know you won't. I am sobbing now, and my tears are dripping onto the turkey, cutting a clean path across the thin veil of instant gravy. I close the clamshell, deciding that I have had enough holiday cheer.

I look around the hooch. It is dark, small. It makes me feel really alone. I want to be with others, want to be cooking and laughing. I suddenly want to be held, and rock side to side for a moment, seeking the only comfort I will have tonight. I wipe the last tear off my cheek and lie down. I finish the beer, staring absently at the ceiling. I wipe off my bent fork and taste the pumpkin pie. It is sweet, but tastes little of pumpkins. I take a second bite, only to hear a slight crunch. As I tug at the fork, I look at the pie. There are crystals. It is still solidly frozen. Maybe the Indian men did not know for sure which day Thanksgiving was?

I open another beer. I am too tired to cry. And I feel a sudden need to leave here, to rush to you, to hold you, to tell you how much I love and miss you. But I know I can go nowhere tonight, that I am trapped in this awful land 8000 miles away from all that matters to me. I look around the hooch, trying to decide if all the stuff will fit into the one footlocker that remains. I decide it will be tight, but it should work. I close my eyes and fantasize about surprising you, and can see your smile. It gives me comfort.

Tomorrow is another day.

Thankful

Last year, David and I sat amidst the date palms in the sun, with the guns echoing across the nearby canyon. We read, wrote, laughed, and talked of our lives, dreams. I remember feeling great comfort, great solace in his presence. At the end of this day together, we walked to the DFAC to find most of the good food already eaten. We laughed, and picked through what was left. We were happy with a scrap of turkey, some cold gravy and potatoes. We found happiness amidst the starkness of our lives in the desert. We found joy in hell.

This year, he is gone. I am alone, still here, still amidst the nothingness of this foreign land. I will skip the celebrations, what little there will be. I will grab some turkey and return to my hooch. It will be just another day to be forgotten.

He will be with his own family a very, very long way from here. He will undoubtedly think of me, of what is next in our lives. And I will think of him. And I will thank God that he came into my life, touching everything, changing everything, making everything good again. And I will wait, patiently. I am thankful. I am blessed. I am alive, and so is he. And we will be happy.

There is much to be thankful for.

For those who doubted: thank you for challenging me to become more of who I always should have been.

For Rick: for being a good friend. I will always love you.

For Sabrina: thanks for giving me hope, for taking me where I needed to go that day.

For Annie: thanks for being more stubborn than I am.

For Walt: thanks for teaching me what I needed to know.

For Jeff: thanks for the promise.

For Marty: thanks for your smile.

For Pat: thanks for letting me know.

For Phil: thanks for the refuge, always.

For the man who raped me: thank you for not killing me.

For Ruthie: thanks for making me laugh, and pulling me back from the ledge. I love you.

For Dale: thanks for saving me. May you be at peace now. Siempre estaras en mi corazon.

For my child: thanks for teaching me how much I needed you.

For Steven: thanks for loving me, for teaching me, for letting me.

For Jan: thanks for twenty five years, and for always handing me the right wrench when it counted.

For Scott: thanks for loving me, for knowing me, for never letting me lie to myself. I will always love you.

For Eric: thanks for respecting me, for always making me hysterical.

For Andy: thanks for teaching me what life could be.

For Jill: thanks for leading me, and thinking I was good enough.

For Bob: thanks for knowing when to say nothing.

For Charlie: thanks for caring enough to keep me alive.

For Chuck: thanks for last Christmas Eve.

For Tom: thanks for having faith.

For Dan: thank you for always being there. I could not have made it without you.

For Eileen: thanks for seeing and knowing.

For Karen and Chris: thanks for teaching me.

For those who hated me: thanks for teaching me about love.

For Marion and Keith: thanks for your gift to the world.

For Carol: thanks for loving him so much.

For David: thank you for accepting me, loving me, making me laugh, cry, and live. Thank you for your kindness, your smile, your warmth, your beauty. Thank you for making me human, for giving me hope again. But most of all, thank you for being you. You are my miracle, my joy. You are my everything. Te quiero. Siempre.