I live in my mother's house.  She's gone.  Everyone I grew up with is gone.

     Tomorrow is Thanksgiving, and my husband and I are packing up the kids and going to his grandmother's house.  Along with his grandparents, we'll be joining his mom, brother, aunt, uncle, great aunt, cousins, and all of the people who come with them.  This will be my second Thanksgiving with my husband's family.   Before last year, I cooked dinner with my mom.   Before then, my mom and I visited our family in Illinois.

     When I think of holiday dinners past, I'm at my grandmother's house, sitting around a table with Junior, Eric, Derek, Carol Ann, Wayne, Jan, Bob, Ron, my mom and Grandma Webb.  Ajax is under the table.   My great grandmother, Grandma Rose, is in the back bedroom, in a hospital-style bed.   I can't remember a time when she wasn't sleeping, but there are pictures of her holding me as a baby.  And once, I saw her open her eyes, just for a second.  They were bright, bright blue.   I was so shocked, and scared to see them.

     Grandma Rose was the first to die. And rightly so – she was very old, and very tired.   Then Ajax.   I had known him since he was a puppy.   Then Junior.  Then Bob.  Then Grandma Webb, Ron, and Carol Ann.   And then my mom.

     When I think of holiday dinners now, I'm sitting at that table, alone.  Grandma and Grandpa Webb are smiling inside of their big, pastel portrait over the piano.  Jesus is watching me from all angles, out of the eyes of paintings and figurines.  For one of her last birthdays, my mom and her brothers and sister bought Grandma a tall, glass, corner case for the big Jesus and all of the angels.   It lights up from the inside, making it look like the dining room shares a glass door border with Heaven.   On my side, small, framed photographs line the rest of the shelves and cabinets.  There are pictures of my mom as a little girl, and even one of me.   Even one of Ajax.   I can feel the shag carpeting beneath my feet, where he used to lay and wait for bits of food.  That ancient, brown carpet goes all through the house – there's a path worn into the next room, where the weather channel is blaring.

     My grandmother was near deaf.  In fact, at holiday dinners, the rest of the family would make good-humored jokes at her expense from behind their napkins, so she couldn't read their lips.  I never did, though, because I was sure she would be able to hear me, somehow.

     The rest of the house is deadly quiet.  The table is all clear – except for Junior's special napkin and spoon.  The spoon is too big for anyone to use without needing a special napkin, paralyzed or not.

     When we were all here together, everyone had a good time.  We just talked, and laughed, and ate, and played rummy.   My family loved cards.  I won our big game of rummy once.  I was so surprised and proud at my sheer dumb luck that my mom had to remind me of how impolite it is to brag.

     I feel so much a part of that memory.  My roots run all through it – around the table legs, under the shag carpeting, and down, through the basement and into the foundation below that old, oval table.  I go with my husband now, and feel so grateful to have such kind and wonderful in-laws, but when I think of holiday dinners, I'm still at that table, remembering the feeling of being surrounded by those faces, and feeling the weight of our family ghosts.