We were getting our coats on, which involved hugs and teasing and goodbyes and a crowd gathered around the front door, when a skinny, sweatered, 11-year-old arm threw itself around me from behind.
This isn’t the way I’ve ever celebrated this holiday. Except for the turkey, not a single food on the table was the same. I have my own little cousins who greet me with forceful, running-start hugs. This isn’t my family.
This cousin-- She’s brilliant and talkative, and sometimes it’s easy to forget that she’s really only eleven. But this hug was the unencumbered sort that you only get from little kids. Sitting on the passenger’s side, I realized that as much as I like her, if I let myself be completely honest, letting go of caution, I could flat-out love her like I’d always had her.
I like these people, even if they have mashed potatoes for Thanksgiving.
This feels like a Thing to me.
And I think the glisten, highlighted by his parents’ taillights, on Ted’s cheeks might mean I’m right.