The Road to Thanksgiving

Photo by Maurício Mascaro

I see the silhouette of the man in the red Jeep in front of me raise his hands into the air and back down again, like he’s trying to land a plane or maybe perfect some last minute choreography. I can’t hear him over the Ezra Klein podcast I’m listening to in my brother’s Volvo, but I imagine he has a few choice words for the driver of the black Audi in front of him, whom he seems to hold personally responsible for the traffic. We’ve been inching along the same two-lane road in Maryland for the last twenty minutes, slowly trying to merge onto the nearby highway.

It’s the night before the night before Thanksgiving and this man is surprised there is traffic.

I can feel his exasperation practically radiating out of his trunk, a belief that this delay has been very clearly thrust upon him and only him. I watch as he jerks his car sharply back and then forward again, attempting to get around the Audi even though there isn’t anywhere for him to go except into oncoming traffic. He realizes this at the last minute and swerves back into our lane, slamming into the Audi’s tail light.

This is the second accident I’ve seen on my way to the airport.

Thirty minutes later I make it to Dulles unscathed and somehow early to pick up my family flying in from Chicago. I park near the American doors, avoiding eye contact with the lone policeman given the impossible task of keeping the traffic moving. He’s blonde and short and looks like he just graduated high school, weighed down by his bulky uniform that he tugs at as he walks past me and toward a mini van parked a couple of doors down.

A mom bounces out of the green station wagon in front of me, squealing with delight while she squeezes what I’m assuming is her son home from college for the holiday. He tosses a duffel into the trunk and she hugs him again, just because she can.

My sister texts that she can’t find the car seat they packed for my nephew, and a beat later my brother texts back that they’re usually in the oversized section, have they checked there?

I look up from my phone to see a shiny black SUV with two American flag bumper stickers pull up next to me, effectively blocking me in. On closer inspection, the bumper stickers aren’t actually American flags; instead, they have the word TRUMP printed in big, block letters that are filled with pieces of the American flag, the Stars and Stripes glowing with a strange neon effect, the whole thing looking like someone’s first attempt at using Photoshop. These stickers are placed on opposite sides of a license plate which reads, “MA SACK.”

Happy Holidays!

The policeman walks back toward us and I wonder if he’s going to ask me to move, which means I will have to ask the owners of MA SACK to move first. I exhale, reassuring myself that we’re all here to pick up family and friends for a holiday centered around gratitude, so surely they won’t shoot me if I have to ask them to pull up a bit?

Right?

Just then I see my family begin to spill out of the doors and I quickly hop out of the front seat, smiling to the policeman as he passes, as if to say You don’t have to worry about me! I’ll be out of here in no time!

I hug my family and help my brother-in-law wrestle with the giant car seat. It still feels wobbly after ten minutes, but eventually, both he and my sister decide it’s secure enough—which is good, because everyone is starving. Once we’ve piled all the bags and people into the car, we’re off, pulling back onto a road that, miraculously, has much less traffic than the way there.

As we drive away, cars continue to stream in, bringing more bumper stickers, hugs, and reunions. Ahead of us, the chaos dissolves into the night, leaving only the simple joy of being together.