Thanksgiving Conversations
I
are only ever after my throat burns from the clear, crisp liquid hidden
underneath my bed. I sway side to side run back up
stairs to my secret stash. The family is almost here. Take another
swig. Fix my shirt. Fluff my hair. Take another swig fix shirt fluff hair change shirt take swig
take swig take— until I don’t know how much I’ve taken
the lights are too bright & carpet shocks me every step I take the doorbell is louder than I’ve
ever heard it conversations float, clouds of words around
my head, never daring to enter unless welcomed.
Unlike my family.
II
My aunt comes first, always on time arms filled with sausage peppers &
criticisms drenched in compliments.
Your brown blouse is pretty
(though it was inappropriate last year)
Followed by her kids, my cousins:
D’s (not) wife (maybe) girlfriend baby mother holds their two
kids in her arms, his daughter lingers behind, awkwardly fitting into the entry
the same way she fits into their family. Ambs enters with a fiance–
less Ish, talks of trips & (not) Forex an after taste on her breath;
conversation clipped at the door, words lost
like her money in that pyramid scheme.
K & her boyfriend take up the space my brother
doesn’t. He’s busy, an excuse to hide his distaste for the family.
I am forced to mingle with people I
only talk to while we give thanks. My sister’s surrounded
by dirty shoes kicked to side
& jackets thrown on worn-out couch. Her fingers fly
across her screen, my phone pings:
next year we aren’t hosting dinner.
III
I stay back in the kitchen:
check the bread, use the blow torch for crème brûlée,
do everything anything nothing.
Fix shirt. Fluff hair. Don’t reach for the bottle calling
out to me, begging for a quick
return. Don’t ask. Don’t ask. Don’t as— How’s school?
Not fine.
Shut eyes. Sit down. Open eyes. Shut eyes. Hope I don’t
cry. It’s not fine. Never fine.
Failing. No sleep. Can’t relax. Not now. Not with them here.
Fix my shirt.
IV
K’s white boyfriend (not the one from her birthday in August)
scrapes fork on ceramic plate.
I stare (emphasis on) her white Boyfriend;
my sister stares (emphasis on) her White boyfriend;
nobody else stares or talks to him.
Conversations about broken engagements—never
Ish’s because we can’t, it’s too soon—, broken
promises—(not) all the ones D’s made to his (not) wife (maybe) girlfriend
baby mother—, broken bonds—we only share niceties
at this table. I shove dry turkey in my mouth—spoon fulls of salty mashed
potatoes. No mac & cheese. Need more dragonberry.
What are you studying now?
They always ask. It never changes. I’m a psych
major, but I’ll never make money. They hope,
like my parents, I change my mind. I won’t
if it means their disappointment. Revel in that feeling & wish
they were the mac & cheese (not here).
V
I need another long sip of not water—maybe
the brown liquid because they won’t
leave. Let’s play a game? Is this gathering not charade enough?
Please, it doesn’t have to be home, just go anywhere.
Give me space to mourn my peace. If I must stay home,
enjoy this meal, provide a bottle of wine to wash down
the inconvenience. Lights dim & conversations become crystal.
Dinner’s over
but—
Madolley Donzo is pursuing an undergraduate degree at SUNY Geneseo in psychology and English (creative writing). She has been previously published in Recess Magazine, SUNY Geneseo’s only BIPOC, student-run literary magazine. When she is not working on editing different drafts of her pieces, she can be found in a reading nook with a fantasy novel in hand.