Thanksgiving Leftovers

Thanksgiving for most people is wonderful. It’s a festive opportunity to commune with neighbors, family and friends. For me, it’s a little more than that. It’s a holiday that triggers me; I can’t help but open my little box of horrible memories and re-assemble them — like a Christmas tree. Every year, while families gather to eat, laugh and bond, a part of me starts to mourn, and I’d rather be alone.

I’m soaked with poignant memories, leftovers from a Thanksgiving Day weekend, not very long ago. A weekend in which I planned to party and cruise. My life took a wild turn and instead, I killed a young man.

A group of them had me surrounded, trapped against my car. They were posturing for the gathered masses but kept a healthy distance because of the dagger in my hand. People paused their cruising that weekend and gathered, watching, waiting… I prayed someone would intervene, but no one stepped forward.

While I was distracted, talking to the man I killed, the weakest brawler in the group inched closer and spat phlegm onto my face. He jumped back quickly, laughing nervously as his buddies jeered. How was I getting out of this one?

When I started to wipe the spit off my face, the biggest one of the group I’d been talking to, threw a solid punch. I’d been in many fights before and instinctively countered immediately. Except that this time, it wasn’t a normal encounter… I’d forgotten there was a dagger in my hand.

Without thought and startlingly fury, I bounced off my car from the punch and sprung at the aggressor as he tried to back-pedal. It wasn’t ‘til I felt intense heat in my hand that I remembered the dagger in my fist. I’d torn his throat out of reflex.

I drew my hand back in shock and blood gushed all over me with each heart beat. I stood in that parking lot soaked — showered in blood from head to toe. I screamed at the world with abandonment; I screamed at the crowds as they vanished, “Why’d you have to fuck with me?” He staggered around while his homies scattered, and fell.

I knelt at his side to cover the gaping hole on his throat, and begged, “Please don’t die. Why’d you have to fuck with me? — Please don’t die, please don’t die…” Though I covered the gaping hole in his throat, I knew he and I were gone, forever bound in that bottomless moment.

A prison cell became the norm — my home. Even when they set me free, I’d find my way back into a cell and curled up with shame. I was content living with other rejects, people caged and bound to their own travesties. Many a normal man give up and quit, beaten by the for-profit prison schemes, but I’m different. I’m privileged to have known true love and courage. My father taught me perseverance and my aunt and loving daughter lauded me through it all. They expected me to get back up and keep trying, to do something constructive with my life.

My recovery from this experience is ongoing, but I’m not caged and alone anymore. I wish there was a way I could apologize to his loved one and family. There’s no end to my shame. And — even though I hid out here at home crying with some depression, I must admit that most of my tears were from gratitude. I’m blessed to have a phone ladled with the phone numbers belonging to family and friends. I have food to share and hugs to spare. I may not be surrounded by people anymore, but I’m glad to be moving forward, able to provide for the ones I love.

This year was exceptionally brutal. While things seem to be getting darker for most, my days keep getting brighter. It doesn’t seem fair that I’m blessed with so much, while millions are broken down and empty, curled up and defeated.

COVID-19 has given most of the world a small taste of what it’s like to be disconnected, caged and alone. Our neighbors are tactfully poisoned with media by a greedy few and we’re pitted against each other, torn asunder by psychology and politics.

I lament there is no way I can reverse the damage I’ve caused others. This horrible memory is just one of many others shelved in my brain. I don’t know the meaning of life but I understand that we need to fend for and love each other — not feast on each other. Together we can stop the wars and pillaging of hope. I’m heartened to know there are many others willing to fight injustice and care for someone else. As for me? In memory of the young man that died — I will forever keep trying.

Happy Thanksgiving…