There wasn’t a turkey this year, and what does it even mean anyway? A twelve-pound bird for one person? It is a monument to miscalculation. But I imagined wrestling it from the oven anyway. The skin blistered gold, the kitchen filling with a smell that usually meant laughter and elbows bumping at a crowded table. Tonight it only meant the radiator clanking in the next room and the faint echo of a football game on a television no one else was watching. I also hate football. In the midst of silence, I carved anyway—the turkey, that is. The knife slid through breast meat as if it was apologizing. I laid two slices on a plate that already felt embarrassed to be there, added a scoop of stuffing gone slightly dry at the edges, and on the side, a puddle of gravy that cooled too fast. The cranberries came straight from the can, retaining their perfect cylindrical shame. I sat at the table, alone, covered with white linen, ironed that morning for reasons I could no longer explain and ate in silence while the overhead light buzzed like a trapped insect.

Outside, the city kept its usual indifferent rhythm. I was picturing myself in New York, at the table by a narrow window, looking out to the street and other buildings. Windows glowed opened to me. Somewhere, families were arguing over politics or whose turn it was to do dishes. Someone’s uncle was telling the same story about the war for the nineteenth time. Children were sneaking extra pie while some were sneaking a joint. I knew these scenes the way exiles know postcards: vivid, colorful, and addressed to somebody else.

But I tried the rituals anyway. I say grace, though there was no one to bow their heads with me, raised a glass of cheap wine to absent friends, and all I’m hearing is how theatrical the words sound in an empty room. After I filled my stomach, I play Whitney Houston, the same songs my mother used to play, and I’d join her singing. But the songs felt as borrowed clothes, too big in the shoulders, smelling of another life. It was all different.

Later, I wrapped the leftovers with the same care people use when packing away Christmas ornaments. My refrigerator was full and I was left empty.

Thanksgiving, I decided, is not about the meal. It’s about witnesses. The day asks for people to see you being grateful even when my mother didn’t believe me. The day ask to confirm that your life is worth the fuss of turkeys and centerpieces. I never even ate much turkey to begin with but without them, gratitude curdles into something lonelier than anger. It becomes an audition for an audience that never shows.

I turned off the lights, left the dishes for morning, and took the last glass of wine to the window. Down on the street, a couple hurried past under the streetlamp, holding hands against the November chill. They were laughing about something I couldn’t hear. I watched until they disappeared around the corner, then I lifted my glass to the dark glass, to my own faint reflection superimposed on the night city, and whispered the only honest toast left.