What Grateful Really Means

This morning I stood in my kitchen watching Sophie carefully wash dishes like Abuela Rosa taught her, while Theo sat covered in mashed potatoes looking like he’d fought the Thanksgiving meal and lost spectacularly.

What Grateful Really Means

Maria’s tamales were cooling on the counter, Roberto was telling the same story about his first Thanksgiving in America for the twentieth time, and Marcus was hovering with a dish towel looking useful.

A year ago, I wasn’t sure we’d make it to this Thanksgiving as a family. I wasn’t sure about a lot of things. The details don’t matter now – what matters is that we’re here, in our kitchen, with mashed potatoes in Theo’s hair and Sophie actually helping without being asked and my husband looking at me like I hung the moon.

I keep trying to find a word bigger than grateful. Thankful feels too small for what it means to almost lose everything and then get to keep it. To get to stand in your kitchen on Thanksgiving morning watching your three-year-old wear his dinner and your eight-year-old learn to be helpful and know that this – this chaos, this mess, this beautiful ordinary moment – almost wasn’t yours to have.

Grateful doesn’t cover it. But it’s what I’ve got.