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The note was held to the refrigerator door with a turkey-shaped magnet. A cartoon turkey, in a pilgrim hat. One of the kids made it at school years ago.
“We left for Hawaii. Don’t worry, Mrs. Margaret. At your age it’s better for you to stay home and rest.”
Mrs. Margaret.
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That’s the part I read four times, standing in that kitchen at seven-forty in the morning on Thanksgiving Day.
My daughter-in-law has called me Mrs. Margaret since 2008. Eighteen years. In a note left on my own refrigerator, in the house I helped buy, she called me Mrs. Margaret, which is what you call the woman who comes on Tuesdays to do the ironing.
Thanksgiving Morning Has a Smell and That Morning It Didn’t Have One
