This Time Last Year

From the time capsule of Fall 2020

This time last year, we pulled the box of Thanksgiving decor off the high shelf in the coat closet that we use as a pantry. We were looking forward to the carefree joy of the holiday, to hosting, to wondering aloud about the origins of a cornucopia as we set the table for twelve. It was colder, this time last year. The air snapped earlier and I kept a plush grey sweater by the door. Our son was a one-year-old still, this time last year, and we folded his “First Thanksgiving” onesie into the plastic bin that my parents would drive home and store in their attic. Sure hope we’re storing all these baby clothes for a reason, they said, this time last year.

This time last year we gave into the precious yearning of the four-year-old and bought tickets to a showing of the latest Disney release that started around her bedtime. We left family snoring on the couch, exhausted from pre-festivity preparation, and drove to the cheap theater in the part of town where the colors and flavors and easy, raucous laughter had an unfamiliar spice. People still crowded into movie theaters, this time last year, and our child stayed wide-eyed and awake through the sugar-coated pop song accompanying the credits. She wandered downstairs the next morning as the Snoopy balloon paraded across our screen and down Central Park West. We sipped hot chocolate and marveled at the snow.

This time last year, my dad’s brother called and asked if he might join our Thanksgiving dinner and could he also bring his girlfriend which was news worthy of several family text chains. They drove together from the far side of Arizona accompanied by her extroverted dog and a box of kosher wine which they hoped was good quality and it never is but we smiled and thanked them. Isn’t Uncle Ted’s girlfriend nice, I asked my daughter as we went upstairs to change for 4 o’clock dinner. I explained divorce to my children for the first time, this time last year, and I hoped that I was kind and generous.

This time last year, I went for a routine visit to renew my birth control and I apologized to the nurse for squinting but, you see, I’m just getting over a migraine. With aura? She asked, and her tone shifted and my stomach dropped. Yes, with aura. She sat, which is a thing nurses do when they want to share something Very Serious. And this time last year I learned that any kind of estrogen-based birth control is contraindicated for me and I should probably seek treatment for migraines. But I’m not a migraine-sufferer, I protested.

Do you get migraines? She asked.

Yes.

Then you’re a migraine-sufferer.

I went to my primary care physician, just about this time last year, and I asked her As A Migraine Sufferer if there was any treatment I might consider. And she replied that yes, indeed there was, but I should be aware of potential side effects which may include substantial weight-loss and I ask her how soon I can start. It’s an appetite suppressant, she explained. And she told me I should take it twice a day and I might not feel the need to eat until rather late in the afternoon and I wondered what that would be like, not feeling the urge to eat from the moment I wake up in the morning. This time last year, I started intermittent fasting, because my hunger pangs didn’t hit until midday and my eating window shrank and so did I.

This time last year, my mother told me that there wasn’t any more room in my fridge or pantry for food and I had probably overbought for the crowd and what was I thinking. I wandered through the house, performatively refilling appetizer trays to the protests of family who said that we’d be far too full for dinner and we were and didn’t I want to eat anything? We laughed as the clock ticked past four and we postponed dinner for another two hours. This time last year, I promised myself that next year I would invite more people and buy less food. I sat at the table with the menu and marked it with notes about crowd favorites and my daughter insisted that we needed more desserts and we all laughed because we could barely finish the turkey and she asked for more ice cream. This time last year, I said okay and we watched her pick at a bowl of vanilla pecan ice cream, the real deal, eyes wide and grateful.

This time last year, I took a hundred photographs of the crowded, messy gathering. Our daughter organized a scavenger hunt for the small wax Pilgrim figurines which she’d wrested from our tablescape and hidden around our place. This time last year, I captured the unselfish moments of adult capitulation to the children’s insistent suggestions of wrestling matches and talent shows and another round of chutes and ladders. I marveled at the power of a village and how empty our home would feel when the cousins shrugged on their leather jackets and slipped back to the other side of town. This time last year, my daughter stared up at me with sleepy eyes and asked if we could do Thanksgiving again next week.

This time last year, as I watched the calendar flip to December, I swore that 2020 would be a year of gathering and family and festive meals where people could continue their complaints about being overfed while they refilled their plates. I promised that even though five and two weren’t such landmark birthdays of course we’d make them big, bigger, the most celebratory parties yet. This time last year, I thought nothing could get in my way.