Thing 2: The Worst Thanksgiving Dish You['ve] Ever Had

When I posted these for the first time there was often a preamble describing my thoughts at the time. If I think the preamble is particularly poignant I'll post it here as well, generally verbatim. This one was originally posted to Facebook on May 26th, 2013.

Preamble:
"Ok, before I start writing the passage I want to include a bit of a preamble. My first thought was that I haven't really had any bad Thanksgiving dishes. My parents (Alfred Aquilina and Mercedes Aquilina) are both wonderful cooks, and so almost immediately I decided that this passage shouldn't be about food. I can picture a grumpy child sitting in front of a steaming pile of goop with a scowl on his face and his arms crossed in protest, but honestly the thought bores me.

So my next thought was "how do I make this not about food?" The only other "dish" that I can think of would be metaphorical. Chicken soup for the soul, as it were. But it's a bad dish, so there would have to be some serious emotional baggage. The two strong emotions that stand out are sadness and anger, in all of their various shades. Anger's a bit cliché, since everyone has already heard stories of Thanksgiving with the in-laws going horribly ary, which leaves sadness.

As I wrote this preamble, my theme already in mind, I settled finally on a topic, and I would like to post a disclaimer that these passages in no way reflect my personal experiences, real or imagined. I'm not posting these as a cry for help or anything of that sort. I simply strive to write as best and as emotionally as I can."

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Thing 2: The Worst Thanksgiving Dish You['ve] Ever Had

"Happy Thanksgiving, deary."

The nurse passed him a tray with a solemn and consoling smile. Turkey and mashed potatoes smothered with a healthy portion of gravy stared up at him from a pristinely white plate, as if eagerly awaiting the feast that was sure to follow.

He did not stare back.

The minutes slowly dragged forward as he gazed beyond the wall before him, lost in thought and hoping beyond hope that if he didn't move, it wouldn't become real. What little warmth remained in the dish on his lap was steadily being dragged, kicking and screaming, into the void consuming his soul. Concerned whispers from worried nurses drifted mercilessly through the halls of the hospital, only barely audible over the growing sound of buzzing in his young ears.

He pictured a sea of apathetic faces staring like zombies at the tunnel before them, not one of them moving to intervene. Every flourescent light bulb was a train barreling down the tracks, burning his eyes with their vicious light as his lids refused to blink. The shivering in his young shoulders was the rattling of the rails as his fears became a reality.

How could she be dead?