Remembering the magic of Thanksgiving in Dublin

Irish American celebrates America's speical day thousand of miles from her home and family

Last year, we celebrated by watching a film in the movie theater and exchanging the traditional turkey and stuffing dinner for spaghetti and meatballs at a restaurant along the Liffey.

This year, we’re not doing much of anything to celebrate. She is working a 9 am to 5pm job, and I am working a night-shift as a caterer, so by the time she gets home from work, I’ll already be in the city serving up mini samosas and sausage rolls.

I skyped with my mom recently, and she told me all about my nephews, how they were growing, how they love to hug “Grammy” and “PopPop.”

Hugging. What a beautiful thing indeed.

It sounds very silly, but I can’t help but wish to hold my beautiful babies, even just for a few moments. I want to kiss their heads and tell them everything’s going to be alright, even if they’re not worried that it won’t be. I want to play with their soft little curls while they sleep on my lap, and be awed by how much they’re learning. I want to tell them I’m proud of them.

When my sister asks her boys “Where do aunty Mary and Baba live?” the boys automatically respond, “On skype!”

I miss them, every single day. They just don’t know, because I’m 3,000 miles away. Now I have a small taste of what all of my undocumented Irish friends in New York feel. Sure, it's our choice to live abroad, but everybody gets homesick sometimes.

At least, I can get on a plane and visit my home when I save up the price of a ticket; the sad reality for my undocumented friends is that even if they can afford it, they can't leave the U.S., for fear of receiving a 10-year ban on reentry.

I can't even imagine how homesick they must be after 8 years or 9 years, when I'm this bad after two Thanksgivings.

Just last night, after my mother spent the day mashing and whisking in preparation for today's big feast, she sent me an email. She wrote, “Love you my Darlin...just ate some of the carrots and parsnips I prepared for tomorrow and was thinking about you and Baba.” It was a bittersweet message, as it made me realize all that my sister and I would be missing.

At some point today, I know at least ten of our immediate family members will sit around the long wooden table in our kitchen, enjoy a feast of mash and meat, share stories, and laugh about all of the silly things our nephews will say.

So, what lies ahead? ‘Sticking it out’ for a few months longer in Ireland. Trying to find more freelance work, more hours at this and that odd job. Or, returning to New York City.

Grand Central Station. The smell of toasted bagels and burnt pretzels. People buzzing quickly through jam-packed city streets. The dirty, stinky, frightening, altogether lovely, beautiful enigma that is the New York City subway system. The kind of coffee that tastes like it’s from the bottom of a pot that has been boiling all day – not the fancy, foamy, European kind. That new york city skyline, which has changed in my lifetime as much as I have. All that is familiar and comforting to me.

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Nster.com