A family, huddled inside. A fire, snickering and snackering. A turkey, basted and beautiful. I can see them across the street—they’re laughing. I am alone. My platter is room temperature; my turkey, overcooked; my mashed potatoes, cold; my peas, hard. I am not laughing.
Enveloped in Vermont snow, the power grid went out about ten minutes ago. To my left, my Vornado AVH10 portable heater, a fake fire, and on the table my dying Dikomo brand flashlight pointed at the ceiling. On the other end of the street, scores of candles line the inside of the family’s house, glimmering in stations, guiding guests between rooms. I am not as warm as they are.
Never has my big, empty house felt so big and empty. Paradoxically, my halls are covered in obscure decorations—thousands of dollars of artwork, trinkets, and devices fill every room. Yet, my house remains empty. How can one person have so many things? So many distractions, like chew toys for a dog, a hopeless attempt to mask the fact that the dog is trapped and more often than not has no one to play with. My Dikomo dampens, my house grows darker, and my turkey gets colder. I am nearly weeping
My envy cascades into rage, a wrath directed at the house across the street. Their fire, their candles, their turkey. Why isn’t it mine? I’ve worked my whole life for this house and all the garbage inside of it, I deserve a Thanksgiving like that. Yet I am denied my right. What did I do to deserve this? I wish their fire would ignite the walls and take the whole structure down. My blood is boiling, but I am still cold.
Suddenly, an anomaly. Another neighboring family exits the house next to me and walks across the street. They knock, the door opens, they enter. I peer through my window and watch as the two families coalesce, meshing into one. Shocked, a debate emerges in my mind: my rage against my loneliness. Which holds more weight in me? Am I truly indignant enough to my own circumstances to further isolate myself, or am I too desperately desolate to ignore a chance at human connection? The victor of the debate is evident. I am grabbing my coat.
I scamper out of my door, dredging through the snow with reckless abandon. The wind pierces the pores on my face, like frozen knives serating my unguarded flesh. I keep pushing, I’m too lonely to give up now. As I ascend the steps to their doorway, a moment of pause. Anxiety swells, I’m just some neighbor they’ve never met. I’ve faced this fear before. Constantly, the apprehension to knock haunts me, a nightmarish dread of reaching out and having my hand slapped back. Not this time. I’m done letting that fear isolate me. I force my fist onto the mahogany door.
The door opens. I am welcomed, embraced by the light and the smiling faces. The talking, the laughing, the turkey, and most of all, the warmth. Enough warmth to make a grown man cry. I am at peace.