Thanksgiving at Honey Girl's

I got in the car with Honey Girl, G and their mom at 6:30 AM, the morning after Thanksgiving. We drove for an hour and got to a barren station where a train headed for DC were to arrive. Honey Girl and G's mom was nervous -- seeing her children go, having the house empty... But she knew this was the routine. And they would be back. She hugged us all, with tears in her eyes.

'Oh Mom...' Honey Girl said, sympathizing and understanding.

'C'mon Mom, what are those now?' G giggled and brushed the air with his hand, trying to make light of what could be a dark moment after dawn.

We hugged and hung on for a while. I had been there before - my parents also cried, dropping me off at the bus station, airport, passport control, wherever. I told her we'd be back, we'd be in touch. She sighed.

We pushed our luggages up the train steps. She had a more stern look in her face, as she told the conductor to take good care of us. G may have reacted and said something about being offered protection at this age, but he was too sleepy and was already on the hunt for the first comfortable seat he could find.

The conductor made his announcement and started collecting tickets. Everyone on the train paid, except for us. The mom had taken care of us.

The next five hours passed with coffee and sandwich breaks, short naps, newspaper shuffles, cartoon contests between Honey Girl and G. When we arrived in NY, Honey Girl and I hugged to say good bye.

'I had so much fun, thank you for having me over,' I said. It really had been the most peaceful and enjoyable Thanksgiving vacation.

"You're welcome. Well, now you've seen my world... and his world," Honey Girl said with a slight nod towards G. She was being generous -- as always. She had open the door to me when we first became friends during a random bar night, some six months ago. She had invited me to her home many times. But her world was different, It was farther and bigger than her address suggested. Now I had seen that.

Loneliness A L'Extreme

My mom had a major operation last week. She lied face down, unconscious for 8 hours in a closed place, held down by people with masks, two continents and 7 hours away from me. I, on the other hand, woke up, put on my work clothes, checked my watch, looked at my cell for text updates from my dad, took the subway, rode the elevator with people who do not and will not know each other and got to my desk. I typed, emailed, talked on the phone. I worried, worried, worried. I looked at the skyscraper outside my window and got dizzy. My mommy lied down with a 30 cm opening in her back. They put in new bones, they put in screws - one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine and 10. I know how to count -- I am just telling you. I called my dad to see how things were going. He said everything was moving along as planned. My aunts were there, my aunts' friends were there.

A vendor called. Someone invited me to a meeting. I checked my watch. Two more hours to go I said. And then one more.

Mommy came out of the operation. My dad's voice was shaky, his speech was rushed. I let him go. He was exhausted. I was exhausted. I hid behind my screen and waited for my eyes to dry. No one noticed. No one called. No one asked.

They serve soup du jour here. It helps liven up the menu, to sprinkle some French. It makes people feel as if they are in Europe perhaps. Maybe for some, that's as close as they will get. They keep their heads down and have their soup. They sign their check, tip the waiter and then exit. No chit chat, no how are you. I am here to eat and you are here to serve. It's the driest relationship. It's means to an end.

I got served the coldest dish in New York the day my mom went under the knife. It was called loneliness a l'extreme...I don't recommend it.