Post-Thanksgiving soup blues

Yeah, yeah. Here's the bowl of soup I made out of the Thanksgiving turkey. Whatevs. Who cares about stupid turkey soup. I miss my brother.

Don't worry; he's alive and well and has a beautiful family, so I'm thankful for that. I know I shouldn't bitch. Our country is at war. Some people have to miss their brothers every Thanksgiving for the rest of forever. My brother's not in the next world. He's just in the next time zone.

So I didn't get to see Brian this year, but it was still a nice holiday. I like the big dinner with family, and I like working with my mom to clean up the kitchen. It's just that I realized something this year. My very favorite Thanksgiving tradition is eating the leftovers with Brian.

I really missed wandering into Mom's kitchen at 10 or 11 at night, after my parents have gone to bed. There's a loaf of white bread on the counter. There's the big white Tupperware bowl in which we've stored leftover turkey since I was a little girl. There's Brian getting out a plate for his sandwich. He always makes me one too: dark meat, too much mayonnaise, and a lot of dill pickles. We stand in the dark kitchen biting the sandwiches and then the pickles. I guess I could have made my own sandwich, but it doesn't taste the same.

This year Mom sent all the leftover stuffing home with me. I love stuffing. It's my favorite dish on the entire Thanksgiving menu. But I accepted it wistfully, because that stuffing should not have survived the night. I should have spent all of Thanksgiving afternoon and evening keeping track of where Brian was. It takes vigilance to notice when he has materialized at the fridge to abscond with the stuffing. If I don't show up in time to demand my share, he might eat the whole bowl.

So, Thanksgiving is over, the stuffing is mine, and I already had a turkey sandwich. I made soup, but I still feel all lonesome for my brother. Wish I knew the recipe to shake it.