The Day After

Thanksgiving strutted in, spreading her feathers like wings, covering us with a light dusting of snow. We toasted Nik at the dinner table, our crystal glasses filled with sparkling cider, our eyes covered with a light dusting of tears.

DaNae couldn’t face the holiday or make her special fondue. Nik and DaNae always prepared something for the feast, fighting over space in the kitchen. Nik said his concoction was the best, and he would make a bowl of shrimp seviche, marinading the shrimp over night in lime juice and Tapatio sauce.

The day after Thanksgiving we’d meet at the Safeway in Sandpoint and car pool to Coeur d’Alene for a day of shopping, parading, more feeding at a buffet, and the firework/lights display. On the way home, we’d listen to Christmas music, Peter Paul and Mary, Bing Crosby, John Lennon, and all the rock Christmas classics.

The day after hit me the hardest. I kept myself busy painting the guest room, washing and patching, sanding, and covering the ugly wall-paper with clean white paint. I worked until well past my bedtime, my tears watering down the paint.

Ryan, Nik’s best friend, stopped by last night on his way back to Moscow. I wasn’t sure he’d make it, and part of me was glad. When he arrived, he hugged me tight, his dandelion head a good foot above me. I cried, showing him the stones Michelle had painted and the memorial block Monique had made. His hugs filled me with Nik’s love. He started to leave, turned, and gave me one more hug.

I finished painting the room, working well past my bedtime.