So several years ago I told Golden I was struggling to find something
worthy of writing about that I could put on this blog. She got me these books.
During a cleaning binge recently I found them and decided to dust them off and
actually use them. Here’s attempt Number 2 this time from the Complete the Story
book. I admit I didn't know where this one was going when I started but here it is with a little help from Chat GPT when I got a little stuck. Who knows maybe I'll make this a weekly or monthly thing.
The prompt:
I stopped for a breath before cutting the turkey. I wanted to
appreciate the moment. Seeing everyone there, sitting around the table, almost
felt like we were a family again. It's a shame it can't always feel like that.
The story: The First Cut
I stopped for a breath before cutting the turkey. I wanted to
appreciate the moment. Seeing everyone there, sitting around the table, almost
felt like we were a family again. It's a shame it can't always feel like that. For a second, no one said anything. Just the clinking of glasses, the
soft creak of chairs as everyone settled into their seats. Aunt May caught my eye and gave me a small nod, her smile
tight but genuine. Even Uncle Dan had traded his usual scowl for a neutral
expression — a small miracle in itself.
I pressed the carving knife into the golden skin and began slicing,
the scent of rosemary and butter rising like steam from a memory. “So,” Mom said suddenly, breaking the silence, “does anyone remember
when Jason dropped the turkey in ‘06?”
A few chuckles rippled around the table. Jason groaned. “I knew that
was coming.”
“You tripped over your own shoelaces,” Cousin Claire added, laughing. “The
bird went flying like a UFO.”
The tension broke a little. Laughter filled the gaps. I even saw Dad
smile — really smile — for the first time in months. Jason lifted his voice over
all the laughing, “hey we all still ate it once we cleaned it off!”
But just beneath the surface, I felt the weight of everything we
weren’t saying. The reasons we’d drifted. The empty chair where Grandma used to
sit. The unspoken arguments, the silences that used to last for days. Still, I
kept carving. Piece by piece. Hoping, maybe foolishly, that this year would be
different. Or at least… that it could be a start.
The chair at the end of the table stayed empty, though we’d still set
it. Just habit, maybe. Or maybe because no one wanted to admit it out loud —
that Grandma wasn’t coming home for Thanksgiving this year.
“She called this morning,” Mom said, passing the rolls with forced
cheer. “Said the nurses let her watch the parade in the rec room. She liked the
big Snoopy balloon. Said it was awfully quite around there today.”
No one responded at first. We just nodded, like we were all silently
filing the information away somewhere — grateful for the update but unsure what
to do with it and a little guilty they weren't there with her.
“She ask about us?” I asked finally, not looking up from the turkey.
“She always does.” Mom's smile faltered for half a second, just enough
for me to catch it.
Grandma had been in rehab for three weeks now. After the fall. After
the hospital. After the way her hands had started shaking so badly she could
barely lift a spoon.
We’d all visited. At least once. But it didn’t feel the same. She
didn’t feel the same.
“She’ll be back,” Jason said suddenly, surprising everyone. “For
Christmas, probably.”
We all looked at him, and for a second I wanted to believe it too. But
the way Mom looked down at her plate told a different story. We all looked at
him. It was the first real thing he’d said all day, and his voice had that edge
— the kind he got when he’d already made up his mind about something. At 22
years old he was still in that I know everything mindset without really knowing
anything at all. He was scheduled to return to school for finals in a few days
and then have a bit of a break. He was not planning on getting a job during his
break but he also hadn’t gotten a job during summer break either.
I set the carving knife down. It wasn’t time to get into it.
“She might,” Mom said carefully. “We don’t know yet.”
Jason cleared his throat. “Actually, I wanted to say something.” He
pushed back his chair just enough to make it squeak — that same old anxious tic
from childhood. “I’m going to finish this semester but I’m not going back to
school next semester,” he said. “I’ve decided to move in with Grandma. Help out with her so she can come back to her house. I’ll be there if she needs anything. You know, just—make sure she is taken care of, not alone.”
Silence.
Aunt May was the first to react. She set down her wine glass — hard
enough that the base echoed off the table.
“Jason, no. Absolutely not.” Her voice was firm, the kind that left no
room for argument — or tried not to. “That’s not your job. You’re 22. You’ve
got your whole life ahead of you. I’m afraid if you don’t go back to school
you’ll never get your degree.”
“She doesn’t have much ahead of her,” Jason said quietly. “And
she was there for me when no one else was. So… yeah. It is my job. School will
be there … after…maybe.”
Aunt May leaned back, arms crossed, eyes sharp, deciding to not ignore
the elephant in the room any longer. “Jason, she’s not coming home. Not really.
I’ve talked to her doctors. They’re not going to say it outright, but—this is
it. That place is her home now.”
Uncle Dan stared at the floor like this was a talk he had heard before, Mom looked like she wanted to say
something but stayed silent, even the cousins stopped fidgeting eyes flicking between Jason and Aunt May. This was something
they all knew was a possibility, but it hadn’t really been decided yet at least not as a family.
“I don’t care what the doctors think,” Jason said. “she’s coming home.
She just needs time, care, and SUPPORT.”
“It’s not about what she says,” May snapped. “She’s confused. She
doesn’t even remember what year it is half the time.”
That landed like a slap. Jason’s jaw tightened. “She remembers me. I’ve
visited her every day since I got home. We laugh. She tells me stories, she
remembers it’s just harder for her to voice it sometimes. I painted her nails
once, changed her when she made a mess, and helped her wash her hair. I can do this!”
A long pause followed. No one realized he had been visiting her every
day since he got home. The turkey was getting cold. The cranberry sauce sat
untouched. Finally, Dad muttered, “Maybe we should all just eat.”
But the air had changed. Something had cracked.
Jason shifted in his seat, clearly trying to hold his ground, but
something in his posture had changed. Like the armor was starting to slip. “I’m
not trying to be a hero,” he said, quieter now. “It just makes sense. She needs
someone. I’ve got the time.”
Aunt May wasn’t buying it. “You also don’t have a job, Jason. Or a
plan. That’s what this is about, isn’t it?” Her tone was sharp but not unkind —
just tired. “This is easier than figuring out what you actually want.”
Jason’s eyes darted to Mom, maybe hoping for a lifeline. She stayed
neutral, which was somehow worse.
“I do want this,” he insisted, but the words hung a little
hollow, "she needs this ... she needs .. ME!"
“You don’t want to go back to school,” May said flatly. “And you don’t
want to admit you have no idea what comes next. So taking care of Grandma gives
you an out. You get to say you’re doing something important, and maybe you are
— but it also means you don’t have to do anything else.”
He didn’t deny it.
I watched him shrink a little in his seat, not defeated, just...
exposed. There was no speech coming. No big defense.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he admitted. “I’m not like you guys. I
don’t have this big plan. School felt like pretending. I’d sit in class and
feel like I was watching someone else’s life happen. It's not that it is hard it just feels like I'm drifting and I could be drifting or I could be with Grandma who needs someone. At least around her I feel
like I matter.”
That quieted the table.
Even May seemed to soften, if only slightly. “You do matter. But you
can’t pour your whole self into someone who’s already halfway out the door.
That’s not saving her. That’s getting stuck. You do realize it could be 6 months, 2 years, 5 years, we just don't know.”
Jason looked down at his plate. He didn’t say anything else.
The turkey was finally being passed around again, but everything
tasted different now. The conversations started back up about daily life, and a
discussion about the big game coming up. They all felt that this was a return
to a semi normal holiday lunch, but it felt like a calm before another storm.
Once dinner was over and the plates had been cleared away many retreated
to the living room to watch football, play cards, work on a puzzle together. The kids went into the yard to play. Jason
quietly slipped out of the house cause he couldn’t let the day go by without
going to see his grandmother. During clean up he fixed her a plate of all of
her favorite things it was time for him to deliver it to her.
She scarfed down the plate of food like she hadn’t eaten in days and
thanked him for it as she did. He told her who all was at lunch and how it wasn’t
the same without her there. When she asked if anyone else was coming to visit
he had to admit he didn’t know. As she finished her lunch he removed her plate
and sat back on the edge of the bed. The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly
overhead as Jason sat by the edge of Grandma’s bed, holding her hand gently in
both of his. Her fingers, once strong and quick with crochet hooks, and casserole dishes, now trembled softly as they rested in his. It was time to tell her.
“You’re looking better,” Jason said, trying to smile. “Way better than
the other day at least. Your color is coming back.”
Grandma smiled back, a little lopsided but still hers. “They’ve got me
doing leg lifts. Nasty little things. But I’m strong.” She tapped her knee.
“Still got some kick left. I walked down the hall and back this morning! They wanted me to use that blasted wheelchair but I wanted to see if I could do it.”
Jason nodded. He was quiet for a long moment after that. Then he drew
a breath, shaky and too loud in the small room. “I wanted to tell you
something,” he said, his voice cracking a little. “I… I can’t move in with you.
When you get out.”
Her face fell slowly, like a curtain dropping.
“I thought maybe I could,” he went on, eyes flicking away. “But
they’re saying it’s not safe. That I’m not ready for that kind of
responsibility. That I might do more harm than good. I just… I wanted to
believe we could make it work.”
Grandma didn’t answer right away. Her eyes filled, not sudden and
dramatic, but slow — the kind of tears that come from somewhere deep, old,
tired. “So I won’t be going home,” she said softly.
Jason swallowed hard. “I don’t know.”
“But I won’t.” She nodded a little, like she was confirming it to
herself. “They’ve been telling me that. I just didn’t want to hear it unless it
came from you.”
“I’m sorry.” His voice was small now. “I really wanted to be there for
you.”
She squeezed his hand with what strength she had left. “You are
here for me.”
Neither of them saw Aunt May standing in the doorway.
She’d come to drop off some fresh socks and books and it never even
dawned on her to bring a plate, which she saw on the side table and knew Jason
had to have brought it. When she saw the two of them — the way Jason sat
slumped forward, head bowed in quiet shame, the way Grandma looked at him like
he was the last bright thread of a fading world — she froze. Something inside
her shifted. Because suddenly, she remembered all the times she hadn’t been
there — too busy, too tired, too practical. All the holidays she left early
cause something “important” came up, the times she put work over family, the
times she frankly didn’t have time for the drama. The calls she sent to
voicemail. The she thought of how her grandmother had never done that to her.
Of the times Grandma had shown up to help with the kids during school breaks,
the meals she’d bring over cause she frankly didn’t want to eat alone and
grandpa was off somewhere, the mess that she would clean up or laundry she
would take over — all without being asked. And Jason, awkward and lost as he
was, had noticed what she hadn’t. And now here he was — not hiding. Not
running. Just sitting with someone who was fading, refusing to let her go
invisible.
Quietly, May stepped back from the door and wiped her face with the
sleeve of her coat before she walked in.
“Hey,” she said softly, as she entered the room, “Mind if I join you guys?”
Jason looked up, surprised. Grandma smiled through her tears. May
pulled a chair over and sat on the other side of the bed. She reached out, took
Grandma’s other hand, and for once didn’t say anything practical at all. They
just sat there. Three generations. Nothing solved, nothing fixed — but for the
first time, something was shared.
-------
The morning Jason left for finals, the sky was still that pale winter
gray that makes everything feel half-asleep.
He stood in the driveway, stuffing his duffel into the backseat of his
beat-up Honda. May was already outside, holding a travel mug in one hand and a
manila folder in the other — her version of a goodbye gift.
“I threw in a gas card and a few gift cards so you won’t starve. Study
hard but don’t forget to take care of yourself,” she said, handing over the
folder. “oh and I also printed out a study guide from one of those sites I know
you don’t actually use.”
Jason grinned, a little sheepishly. “Thanks, Aunt May.” They stood
there for a second, the air between them filled with all the words they’d
already said — and the quiet relief of knowing they didn’t need to repeat them.
“I’ll check in on her while you’re gone,” May said, more gently than
she normally spoke. “Every couple of days at least if not more.”
Jason nodded. “You don’t have to—”
“I want to,” she cut in. Then, after a beat, “You were right, by the
way. She was always there. I just never let myself notice it.”
Jason didn’t say anything. He just hugged her — a little stiff at
first, then solid. Then he jumped in his car and backed out of the driveway.
The nursing home was quiet later that week when May sat down with the
doctors. They gave her their professional opinion: it was too risky. The house
wasn’t equipped. There was a fall risk. There were care needs. They weren’t
wrong. But May had made up her mind.
“She wants to go home,” she said. “I want to give her that. Even if
it’s not forever. Even if it’s just for a little while.”
The paperwork was tedious, the calls endless, the modifications to the
house a headache. But somehow, it all got done. A borrowed hospital bed. A home
nurse two days a week. Rails on the stairs. Meals in the freezer.
And when Jason came back, road-weary and sleep-deprived but somehow a
little taller, a little clearer — the front door opened, and there she was.
Sitting in the living room. Wrapped in her favorite blue cardigan. The
afternoon sun spilling through the lace curtains. Her photos back on the
mantle. Her life — pieced together, if imperfectly — in its rightful place.
“Surprise,” May said from the kitchen, drying her hands on a dish
towel. “Don’t get excited. It’s still trial and error.”
Jason just stared. Then he walked over to Grandma and knelt beside
her, taking her hand. “You’re home.”
She smiled, eyes glistening. “I told you I would be.”
Behind him, May leaned against the doorframe and watched as her
mother’s frail hand rested in Jason’s steady one. She still wasn’t sure this
would work. But for once, she didn’t need certainty. She just needed this
moment — this return, this connection, this choice — and for now, that was
enough. Jason walked over and hugged her, quiet but saying everything at the same
time.
A few weeks later the house smelled like cinnamon and cloves, like
pine needles and roast turkey. Snow had fallen the night before, blanketing the
yard in soft white that seemed to hush the whole world.
Christmas lights blinked gently around the window frames. Someone had
set Grandma’s old ceramic tree on the sideboard, its tiny colored bulbs glowing
like candy. Holiday music played faintly in the background — the old stuff, the
records she loved to hum along with, that Jason has started learning by heart
singing along with her as they played. It took some doing but Grandma sat at
the head of the table, wrapped in a quilt she’d sewn decades ago. Her breathing
was slower now, and her frame seemed smaller every time Jason looked at her —
but her eyes sparkled brighter than they had in years. She looked out over her
table with all the glit and glitter that a festive holiday occasion called for
and took stock in her family surrounding her and quietly thanked God for a
wonderful life. The chaos and laughter and clink of glasses that came with a
big family meal had all returned to this house, even just for today. Her house.
Her family. She was home.
Jason stood beside her, watching carefully as she reached for the
carving knife. Her hand trembled as she gripped the handle. Then she looked up
at him, her eyes meeting his.
“I think it’s your turn, sweetheart,” she said, and handed him the
knife.
He took it gently, both hands, as if it were something sacred. Maybe
it was.
Everyone grew quiet for a moment as he stood there, looking around the
table — at May, who gave him the smallest nod, at Mom, at his cousins, all of
them waiting, breathing in something tender and unspoken.
“I want to thank you all,” Jason said. “For being here. For showing
up. For letting today be about joy, not sadness. That’s what she wanted. That’s
what we all needed.”
Grandma smiled, a single tear slipping down her cheek. Not from grief
— from fullness. Jason turned back to the turkey and slowly, carefully, made
the first cut. A moment passed. Then another. And just like that, the room
exhaled as he started passing around the slices and mentioned that time he
dropped the turkey.
Laughter started again. More plates were passed, wine was consumed. Stories
flowed like cider. For that one afternoon it was not about endings. It was about
everything that had ever mattered before and everything that would come
tomorrow cause there would be a tomorrow and time only knew how long they would
have for days like this.
Well there you go ... .what did you think ?! Anyone.... Buller?! Buller ?! IYKYK :)
Marcy
