I remember when I wasn’t even ten years old yet. The holidays were a magical time of the year that included delicious food, bright lights, and a fat man who’d drop off presents under the humungous pine tree erected in our living room. Thanksgiving morning, I’d be up and at it earlier than usual. My mom would dress me up, do my hair, and plop me in front of the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade broadcast while she did her own routine. The combination of lip-synced performances from the TV and the squeak of my mom’s curling iron from the bathroom steadily hyped me up.

We’d drive over to my grandpa’s house with our food contribution settled in the backseat next to me. The winding Minnesota roads lined with ice brushed trees rushed past my window. Finally, we’d pull into the driveway packed with cars and walk up to the front door. Opening the door, a waft of cooking turkey and the familiar odor of “grandpa’s house” came rolling out in the most soothing yet magnificent combination. Family faces greeted us with hugs and jokes I didn’t understand due to my youthfulness. I was shy at this age, but my excitement was overwhelming.

I would be seated at the “kid’s table” with my fellow cousins, all the while watching the grownups feasting at the main dinner table with fancy glasses and beer cans. My grandpa always sat at the head of the table in perfect view from my spot among the immature. Every once in a while, the grownups would turn and acknowledge us, asking us about the food or making sure we weren’t throwing carrots at each other. Altogether, we’d scarf through bowls of stuffing, plates of bread and cranberry, and a large, juicy turkey.

The coma would come after everyone migrated to the living room. My grandpa would stretch out his belly on the couch as he’d fall into his insanely noisy slumber. My parents, aunts, and uncles would joke about life while us kids would scurry around the house trying to stay out of trouble. As the sun began to set, we’d begin collecting our coats, empty platters, and containers of leftovers. We’d make our rounds of farewell hugs and kisses before finally making back to the car to journey home.

Occasionally, I’d fall asleep in the back seat or at least pretend to before making it back to our own suburban neighborhood. After parking in the dim garage, my dad would carry me into our house, up the stairs, and into my awaiting bed. Taking turns tucking me in, my parents would kiss me on the forehead and pull my blankets up to my chin. I remember the absence of noise in the house as I began to drift off to sleep. No arguments. No fighting. Only family and turkey.

Now that I’m eighteen years old, the holidays are a lot different. My parents are divorced now and my grandpa passed away seven years ago. The distinct smells and sounds that I remember obsessing over are now a distant memory. The once special days in November and December feel political and empty. My family is a sliced and carved up turkey on a plate that once held our unity as a family. My parents vie for my attendance at their dinner table by using every trick in the book. The holidays aren’t holidays anymore.

Death, divorce, separation, and “not talking” has slowly dismembered my family. While the holidays are tarnished and don’t bring the joy and merriment they used to, I don’t dread them. I have hope for them. I have hope that maybe an invitation to dinner will stretch a little farther to another family member. I have hope that my parents will welcome me their dinner table rather than guilt trip and demand. Family is supposed to maintain an unconditional love for one another and to stand by each other despite the circumstances.

I was a naïve kid ten years ago, but I wasn’t mistaken. While the smells and sounds were mesmerizing, the feelings around me were the best part. It was love and happiness. Death, divorce, separation, and “not talking” doesn’t eliminate these feelings in a family. It takes time to reestablish them, but they aren’t gone. We were once a family that cherished these feelings and that doesn’t just go away when life throws hell at you. That’s why I don’t dread next year’s holiday fiasco. That’s why I have hope for the holidays.