Editor’s note: This post was written before a particular course of events unfolded. Stay ’til the dessert course, and all shall be revealed. XO, AT

If we are grateful, Thanksgiving tastes like truth.

If we are human, Thanksgiving tastes … complicated.

If we are at Tabby’s Place, there is a cat at the head of the table.

I don’t know where this blog finds you today.

You may be squinting at arrivals and departures, trying to figure out if you already missed your flight.

You may be in a twin bed at your parents’ house, hiding under your old Mickey Mouse comforter until you can remember whether you are four or forty-four.

You may be studying the difference between “Labubu” and “delulu,” so you know what your tween cousins are talking about.

You may be at home, with pizza bagels and your cat, and glad about that.

I know this much: you are basted in feelings, invited or otherwise.

Feelings know the passcode to “the holiday season.” They show up like strays on the stoop of November. They slip in while you are rehearsing responses to aunts’ nosy questions, or wondering when the guest list got so small. They crank old music boxes and chase you down the stairs.

So, if you are stewing in a goulash of gratitude, grief, or guilt, you are in good company.

And if you need a place to feel freely, you’re on Poppa Lay‘s guest list.

His name may suggest otherwise, but Poppa does not see himself as the head of the household. He is too humble to expect the biggest slice, too bashful to command the conversation.

Let chatty cousins like Jed greet everyone at the door. Let gabby, gushy Mysterio give the blessing.

Meanwhile, Poppa’s words are few.

In the noisy welcome of all the “nieces and nephews” in Suite D, you may not even notice Poppa Lay. Not at first.

But everyone knows: the best part of Thanksgiving is “the lull.”

After everyone trades tidy life updates and exhausts the subject of Dancing with the Stars, the real conversations happen.

As Midnight and Chicken Nugget go off to chase catnip footballs, Poppa Lay will catch your attention without grabbing. Like a good grandpa on a patched-up armchair, he was there all along.

Poppa Lay is not proud. He will not belch, boast, or preach. He will not force you to recite what you are grateful for.

He knows you have both received more gifts than can be counted. You are here together, after all.

Providence and physics agreed to assign you and Poppa Lay to this century, this hour, this safe suite, with its My Little Pony blankets and paper dishes of turkey.

It could have been otherwise.

Poppa Lay is here because, many Thanksgivings ago, a bite wound infected him with feline immunodeficiency virus. FIV is not the flight any cat chooses to catch.

But a “hopeless situation” is the house key to Tabby’s Place. Only those jagged teeth can open the door.

Poppa Lay is here, because grace gobbles up grief.

But Poppa Lay is too good a Poppa to insist on plastic smiles.

An open heart is an honest heart. Love is large enough to seat loss and longing. The present moment, all plump with promise, may sit at the head of the table. But the past curls up at the tail.

The most patient cat will curl quietly by your side, whatever is on your plate.

All the feelings are welcome in Suite D. You are welcome with Poppa Lay.

And if you’re feeling the need to schedule a flight to Tabby’s Place right now, we’ll help with the itinerary. Rural New Jersey is peaceful in winter.

If we are grateful, Thanksgiving will hand-feed us courage.

If we are human, Thanksgiving will call up the whole cornucopia of our hearts.

If we are at Tabby’s Place, Thanksgiving will come again: tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow.

Your Poppa promises.

And your Poppa will always be your Poppa … even though he is spending this Thanksgiving in his forever home … with his forever brother … Squentin Tarantino.

Behold! Love is always doing something more wonderful than we dare to imagine.

Happy Thanksgiving, Poppa Lay!

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