The Seventies-Personal Narrative

The dog yapped wildly as its owner slowly spoke. Her voice was fairly unique, in that it was both squeaky and deep, like a distorted teenager going through puberty. The dog, however, was the usual garden variety mutt you can find digging through trash all over the country. His fur was mostly white, with brown streaks of indeterminate origin. I sat on an old couch that had most likely been passed down generation to generation, with each tear and rip being covered up with duct tape. The couch was less of a couch and more of a duct-tape based art piece at this point. The room itself was straight out of some post-apocalyptic version of the Seventies. A shag carpet, which at one point was probably one color, was what I was nervously resting my
feet on. Old tacky knick knacks adorned the walls, lovingly placed decades ago. Faded photos of figures indeterminate populated the wall, their eyes digging into the back of my neck. They seemed to be calling me an imposter, and I felt inclined to agree with them. This, this is my heritage. Thanksgiving has to be the most passive aggressive holiday. People all around the country gather to purportedly celebrate what’s really important. You know, family, God, wealth, etcetera. Instead, the entire thing usually collapses into petty blood feuds going back seemingly generations. The fact that you happen to be related to someone doesn’t mean they have anything in common with you, and it certainly doesn’t mean you like them. My grandmother, a rather enterprising lady, had eight children. Or was it nine? I know that one of them died while they were still in grade school, and the father soon after. I have a rather extensive back catalog of aunts, uncles, cousins, and various other associated personages connected to my mother’s side of the family. My interactions with them usually go like this: I don’t recognize who they are, even though they instantly recognize me. I act like I know them up until a point, a pointless charade as see through like crystal. They act nice, I feel guilty. As you can probably guess, Thanksgiving is a apoapsis of anxiety for me. I was visiting one of these strange, unknowable people right now.
My mother was with me and introduced me to the woman, and then she left, stating some difficulty with my grandmother. And so I sat across from the wrinkled, alien figure right now. Her eyes were cloudy, and if I didn’t know better, I’d say she was blind. She was ruminating on her own sons and daughters, who I’m probably supposed to recognize. She began spouting a long, almost seemingly prepared diatribe about how they had all grown up and moved away, becoming lawyers, doctors, musicians. She may have been the most lonely figure I have ever seen. “An’ Sandy’s had two children, you can see ‘em on the wall there. I’ve never really had the chance to meet ‘em, but they seem lovely. I’m sorry for the mess, after Bill passed, I haven’t really cleaned up too much. Why would I? Ha. They say, they say that family is everything, that that’s what keeps you going. I think that’s nonsense. People drift away. They die, grow old, or just plain decide to not talk to you anymore. If you rely on family, you’ll end up like me.” Her cloudy eyes began to rain. “You’re young. You can still decide how you wanna live your life. Me, I’m done. I’ve seen the end, and it’s comin’ fast. And I’m terrified! You see these old people talk about how they’ve come to accept death or whatever. No, I’m not one of them. Every single second of every single day, every single piece of me is screaming that this isn’t true. That it’s not going to end this
way.” Soon after that, my mother picked me up. I hugged the lady before I left, a real, genuine, emotional hug. She was probably the family member I see myself most in. On the car ride away, my mother asked me what I thought of her. I only said that I liked her. She seemed shocked. After this interaction, we came to the part of the car ride where I put my earbuds in, listen to music, and try to internalize my emotions. I put my iPhone on shuffle, closed my eyes, and disassociated, as young people do. Some plodding lo-fi Rock started playing, something I didn't recognize. I started crying, silently, angling my head away from my mother to ensure she didn't see. Thanksgiving really is the worst.