“There, that’s done.” she said with satisfaction although she knew her voice would not carry over the drone in the adjoining room. “Now where are those strings?” she asked as she looked into the pan for the lifting cords to pull the turkey from the roaster to the platter. “Ah, there you are.” she said smiling. Positioning the strings around the turkey, she lifted the entire bird onto the china platter. “Amazing!” she said triumphantly as she saw that the whole turkey was still intact, perfect in its golden brown skin, moist stuffing overflowing from its cavities.

Using both hands, she allowed her weight to settle on her cane and took a deep breath. One more move of the turkey and the hard part would be over. She waited for the smell to waif into the other room, yet she knew that not even that would cause any of her grown children or grandchildren to offer up help. “That’s ok.” she said quietly.

Using her cane, she walked to the dining room to retrieve her walker. The platter could rest on the small shelf a neighbor had built for it several years before, saying “There you go Birdie, that should make some things simpler”. Now she was more comfortable, she never felt the cane afforded her the stability that she needed. Once the turkey was in place in the center of the table, she went back to the kitchen to finish serving up the rest of the dishes. Mashed potatoes and sweet potatoes. Asparagus and green bean casserole. Salad and cranberry sauce. Gravy and Crescent Rolls. Six trips back and forth later and she was done.

She looked at the table with pride. It was perfect this year. She had brought out the good china and the expensive stemware. Several bottles of wine stood in ice coolers at each end of the table. No expense had been spared for this meal. Her last.

She walked to the Family Room doorway. “Dinner is ready.” she shouted over the din of voices.

“Finally.” came one response.

“About time.” came another.

She stood back from the doorway, away from the stampede making its way to the table. Her oldest son screamed up the stairway,

“Dinner, kids. Come see what Grandma’s cooked up.”

Everyone found their place at the table. Roberta came to the table last. They did not wait for her to sit down before the dishes were passed and the turkey was cut. Not once did she hear a word of praise. No thank you’s either.

She watched as plates were covered, wine glasses filled, and small talk exchanged. Not one word came her way. No surprise, she thought. They only came once a year. The free meal was the incentive that allowed them to alleviate their guilt over ignoring her the rest of the year. The bowls of food were passed and she allowed herself tiny portions of everything. Just to make sure it was good, and it was.

Hours of planning and cooking decimated in less that twenty minutes. The bowls empty, the platter holding nothing but a carcass of a once proud bird. Her oldest daughter jumped up to retrieve the pumpkin pies from the sideboard. Bringing two at a time to the table, the old woman was impressed that she had enough initiative to do that on her own. The pies were cut and slivers offered up on plates. The whipped topping passed from one hand to another.

Roberta smiled. The time was right. Mountains of cleaning up remained on the table and in the kitchen. She sat back in her chair and closed her eyes. Her smile grew broader as she thought about how she had changed her will last month leaving nothing to these children and grandchildren. The house had already been sold, the title and the money received transferred to a women’s shelter. They too would get the remaining money she had.

With each breath the ebb and flow of her life force slowed and shrunk until she took that final breath, thinking that yes, this was a perfect Thanksgiving meal.