Twenty-five

Today is my 21st anniversary and Thanksgiving, two occasions that intersect gratitude, love and family but in ways not seen in a made for television Hallmark special feature. I am grateful to the reality that my mother doesn't live farther than a two hour drive to Georgia. That's a lot of time and gas to get that much crazy for a traditional holiday. I'm also grateful that Cal sees the whole picture and never runs screaming from the room no matter how Pedro Almodovar surreal it gets whether we're talking about the impossibility of Castro's eventual demise or my horrendous error in forgetting the banana leaves for the tamales. That is a kind of love no one sings about and I'm one lucky broad to have it for so long.
My family is a lot like the trees lining US 23 going up to Waycross. Always the same green, green, green. A peripheral landscape that is relentless in its sameness. You know what to expect on the ride. But then there is this unexpected stream of trees and you would swear you've been instantly transported to North Carolina, because you see a burst of yellow, and some crimson, some burnt orange. It happens every 30 or 40 miles or so, all that green then about 10 trees that go all Wizard of Oz on you. My family is like that relentless green, they worry or obsess for eternal distances not yet measured, but then sometimes they crack every so often and have genuine faith that my plane will not crash, or the doctor's prognosis will not be fatal, a chunk of satellite won't fall on my house, a parent will not come and shoot me or the sushi we might be eating will not give us food poisoning. These are small, unexpected treasures on the side of the road but because it's family I marvel that they were able to take root after so many miles.