*This is an old story I wrote back in October, which is why it is Thanksgiving themed. I revised it slightly, and decided to use it here because I was proud of it.*
*Religious References*
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“Hey, Mama…”
Lance McClain stood in front of the stone, his blue eyes the only true color in the dull November scenery. Trees in the midst of shedding their crumbled brown leaves, grass dead beneath the soles of his sneakers.
He wore his father's jacket, a yellow scarf wrapped up around his neck and slender hands shoved into his pockets for warmth. The boy stood in absolute silence, eyes searching the dull rock in front of him like he was awaiting a response.
There was none.
He chuckled shortly, breath billowing out in front of him like the smoke from a cigarette, sniffling from his tinted red nose.
“I know how much you loved Thanksgiving, Ma. I promised you I'd have my whole family to be celebrating my thanks with today, even the crazy cousins….”
He scoffed to himself, shaking his head with a smirk. Lance rubbed the scar along his jaw, eyes thoughtfully examining the dead flowers.
“But, Mama, it's not the whole family without you...”
His mind shifted, towards his mother and father. The ones who brought him up.
To his little brother, sitting atop a high chair and barely half a year old. Himself, only just hitting childhood.
~
“Mama!” The bright eyed boy ran up to his mother in the kitchen, cheeks tinted pink and his little nose scrunched.
She looked down at her eldest son, gasping. “Oh dear, you've gotten leaves all over you, hijo!” She smiled with a shake of her head. “What am I going to do with you, all dirty before dinner? Go wash up.”
Lance grinned, and instead of obeying her wish, he dragged over a chair from the table and clambered onto it to stand next to his mother. “Pie!”
She smiled sweetly, “Not yet, this is for dinner. Do you want to help me?”
Immediately, Lance nodded. “Apple?”
His mother hummed in affirmation, “And blueberry, for your father.” Her flour washed hands patting gently at the dough, creating perfect little folded crescents. She watched her son with a gentle gaze, small little direction here and there.
“Wash your hands.”
“Okay, Mama.”
“Stir the sugar into the blueberries, like this.”
“Okay, Mama.”
As the smell of baking pies filled the home, it was time for Mr. McClain to return home.
“Hello, dear!” Mrs. McClain called from the kitchen upon hearing his arrival, “Lance and I are in here!”
Lance's father grinned, slipping off his work boots, and made way for the kitchen.
Not before crouching in the living room, where little baby brother played on his back, doing whatever infants do.
“Hey there...” The parent cooed, rubbing the baby's stomach, “Doesn't it smell so nice in here? Mom and Lance are baking.”
“Dad!” Lance called from the kitchen, “Our pies are done!”
Mr. McClain grinned wider, grunting as he got to his feet and went to the kitchen, exaggerating a sniff of the air.
“Oh my, you two must have been working all morning. These pies...oh! Do I smell blueberry?” He smiled at his son, bringing his wife into his side with an arm around her middle and kissed her head.
“Welcome home, love.” She hummed, hands hovering over her work on another pie crust.
“Mm.” The adult responded, listening to Lance babble on about the pies and other delicious food they had been making today for their Thanksgiving.
“....and we're gonna make cranberry sauce right outta the pan, Dad! Then Mama said we were gonna go to the store, a-and buy special tasting baby food for the baby so he can have some too because he's too little for our food...and...and…” the child continued his happy vent of Thanksgiving excitement.
Maybe he'd grow up to like cooking.
Or surround himself with friends, or a friend, who did.
Before the McClain's knew it, the Thanksgiving day parade was on the television. The small box with antennae sticking out at the top like antlers, dials along the side.
Lance sat on his knees in front of it, face inches away and blue eyes glued. He'd call out a couple times, commenting on celebrities or how cool the floats were. Mr. and Mrs. McClain chuckled at their son, the youngest member of the family cradled in the mother's arms.
The dinger went off on the crock pot, and she announced dinner minutes afterwards.
“Lance, did you hear your mother? Scrub your face and wash up.” Mr. McClain instructed.
The child was quick to do as his father told him, hobbling off to the sink to clean his hands. A little hum escaping him, some song he'd heard on his Dad's radio.
“... Dame más...gasolina….”
The proud father looked to his son, recognizing the song with a grin and ruffled his son's hair. Maybe it wasn't the best song for a young kid, but oh well. “Attaboy, maybe later I'll let ya stay up and watch the game with me?”
Lance's features lit up, “Yeah yeah!!!”
Mr. McClain lifted Lance, carrying him to the table and plopped him in his seat. He started getting the baby into his highchair while Mrs. McClain set the table, steaming servings of various foods set out.
“Eh!” exclaimed the baby as Lance handed him a little bread roll. “Mmb.”
The mother smiled at her sons, sitting down in unison with her husband. “Let's say grace, boys.”
All except for the infant, the family bowed their heads and folded their hands. Admittedly, the little blue eyed Lance was peeking a little.
“I'm thankful that I get to spend another amazing Thanksgiving with my boys, and that the baby is here with us this year to celebrate along.” Lance's mother said.
Her husband went next, “I'm thankful for my job, and that it pays well enough to allow us to have another great meal like this one. I'm proud to have our newest son this year, and that Lance didn't destroy the kitchen making pie.” He and Mrs. McClain chuckled. “Your turn, Lance.”
The boy perked, “I'm thankful for Mama and Dad and my baby brother.” He hesitated, “And for pie.”
“Thank you. Ame---”
“Eeeee!” The baby squealed.
“Mama. You forgot bubby!” Lance said, looking up from his hands. The adults chuckled.
“Of course, your turn, little one.”
The baby responded by shoving his almost shredded bread roll into his gummy jaws, giggling.
“Amen.”
~
Lance sniffed, almost not realizing the warm tears making their way down his cheeks.
“... I miss you, Mama. I didn't come back to be without you…” He rasped out, his throat raw from the sudden emotion clawing at it.
He swallowed thickly, pulling a bottle from his pocket and took a long drink of it. He let the warm beverage trickle down his throat.
Better. Apple cider was always better.
Lance, hands shaking, removed them from his pockets and went to the heart chain that hung around his neck.
A simple thing. Yet it meant so much.
The blue eyed male squeezed it in his hand for a moment, then let it drape across his mother's headstone, where it's final resting spot would be.
A shiver passed through his bundled up form, breath puffing in front of him, and he thought of spirits of those who weren't with their loved ones on this holiday.
From beyond the grave, with his hand on Lance's shoulder, his mother stood.