Is it because I went to the store the day before Thanksgiving, when all the turkeys were adamantly frozen and anyone who’s ever done this before would know not to buy one? And me, 8:00 a.m., searching for two whole chickens (of which there were three. I bought two)?

Is it because of the monetary/caretaking/never-loving-enough admonishment I have to hear from all sides about this young man I’m trying to make a difference for?

Is it because of my mouth? My endlessly-opinionated mouth?

That she tested positive? That I told her to get on the plane anyway because she got this from her boyfriend and he was negative and I’m “just being paranoid”?

Is it because of all of this that we burned two out of four pies? That my mother is coming at 7:00 a.m. to do a drug deal gone bad: one fifteen-pound turkey for one five-pound chicken and a few slices of the unburnt pumpkin?

Is it because I am me? Because she went to school in maskless, anti-vax Arizona?

Is it because of the world we live in, so empty of snow so late in November that I have to squeeze in a ten-second video of these few pathetic flakes?

Is it because of everything I’ve written here, when we were going to have Thanksgiving with my children’s only surviving grandparents for the first time in two years, and now we’re not?

Is it because we burnt the pies?

I will never know. I will never, never know.

I will just be crying in my kitchen, cursing the modern world, until I find the root cause of why this hurts. So. Much.

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