PeonyMagazine

  When I think back to the Thanksgivings of my childhood, the memories come in warm, heavy waves. Everything felt prepared long before I ever stepped into the kitchen: mashed potatoes already whipped to a creamy softness, cranberry sauce cooling in its glass dish, casseroles arranged in careful rows that promised comfort long before anyone even sat down. Back then, Thanksgiving didn’t feel like a holiday someone had to work for. It felt like something that simply happened, almost like the table set itself. I wandered, I waited, I ate, without ever realizing how much invisible labor pulsed beneath the surface of all that ease. What I remember most vividly, though, is seeing my mother at the counter one year, slicing something, in my memory it’s red, something bright and bold, and her eyes were watering. As a child, I didn’t think twice about it. I assumed the sting in her eyes came from whatever she was chopping. Maybe onions, maybe peppers, maybe something sharp enough to summon te...

  Special Issue – November 2025: Table of Return (Part 1 of 4) When I came home two weeks ago, everything felt both familiar and different. The sound of the gate creaking open, the smell of my mother’s cooking, even the faint noise of a nearby rooster, all the same as before, yet carrying a quiet heaviness I couldn’t name. I stood by the doorway for a moment, just taking it in, the house I grew up in, the one that held every version of who I used to be.  It had been years since I last stayed here for more than a few days. Life had taken each of us in different directions. My sisters and I, once inseparable, now live scattered lives shaped by work, distance, and the changes that come with growing older.  I walked to the dining area, where the light from the window fell softly on our old wooden table. That’s when I saw it, my  chair . Still in the same spot. Still standing like it had been waiting all this time. The edges were a little worn, the color faded, but the mo...