As the days get shorter, I think of  my final Thanksgiving before going in to treatment. Running in the glow of too-early Christmas lights, intentionally scuffling through piles of brilliant crimson and gold leaves, I picture my mother sitting across from me at the lonely Thanksgiving table in November of 1985. I'd woken up to the bright light of a snow storm. My brother decided to stay at home, but I could walk to mom's.

Mom knew I'd spent a few days in the Care Unit earlier in the month, checking myself out after I'd been detoxed, but we'd never talked about the details of what got me there. My Dad had been in and out of detox before he'd stopped drinking. Maybe she thought it was the booze. But then my brother told her the story, as much as he knew at that point, so as my step-dad went into the kitchen, she looked at me across the table and said, "I didn't raise you this way. I just don't understand." What I wanted to do was climb on to her lap and cry. I wanted to say "I don't understand either." But because I was afraid of what it would mean to admit that my life was out of control, I was flip and tried to be cavalier, comparing my sticking a needle in my arm to cocktails with dinner. I'll never forget her look of sadness and fear, and knew, even as I was speaking, that what I said made no sense.

A year later I sat at that same table, sober 10+ months, with old Leonard in tow - Leonard, with half a dozen teeth to his name, thick glasses, and fingers stained up to the knuckles with the tar of countless cigarettes, sober nearly as long as I'd been alive. A lot had changed in the year that had passed - most notably, the company I kept. The next year I cooked a bird for my new friends who didn't have other plans. The year after that, the first of many "day after Thanksgiving" parties, because now I was working the holiday. I look at photos from those times - some of the people are friends still. Some are drinking. A few have died. I am grateful for the fellowship that surrounded me, and day after day, showed me that life, a good, fun and productive life, was possible, and here I was living it, one day at a time.

This time of year, as the days get shorter, I think of childhood Thanksgivings - sitting at the kid's table, and the time that grandpa stood up 2x4's in his basement to stabilize the floor for all 10 of us who were coming for dinner. I remember, as we got older, sneaking off for a cigarette, and later, sipping the dinner wine, in a hurry to get up to the park where my friends had already escaped.

This time of year I think of those who are no longer here, and our first holiday season without my step-pop. Mom has been gone five Thanksgivings now, time enough to settle in to new routines, though not long enough to not miss her laughter. The holiday is quieter these days. I'm no longer driven to go to this house and that, a taste here and a bite there. These days, I'm content to have a quiet day of reflection on all that has come to pass.

Next Thursday I'll likely meet my brother for what is becoming our yearly walk. In the afternoon, my husband and I will go to our 2nd family's for deep fried turkey and all the trimmings. For all my want of a quiet day, there is something special about saying grace with a group of dear friends, noting our graying hair, and the young ones getting tall.

Contrary to popular opinion, I love November, with its underlying current of sadness and melancholy; cold, wet days, and darkness drawing me to home and hearth. November is Gratitude Month, and rightly so as we are asked to pause and think of our blessings. It is also a time of reflection on the year passing - what do I feel good about for 2017? What might I have done differently? What old ideas do I want to release?  What do I want to invite into my life in the coming year? 

How is November for you? When you take stock at the end of the day or the end of the year, what is on your list?