Ah. So we’re here. A full week without writing anything and I’m afraid that everything that I have to say has evaporated into smoke. Gone forever out of the transom of my mind like so many thoughts we have throughout any given day.

Such as, why do they call it a refrigerator? By putting “re” in front of it we assume that it is the second time that we are putting it into the mechanism. But, often that’s not true. When I open mustard, it’s the first time I put it into the refrigerator. So, in essence, I’m “frigerating” it.

But that’s neither here nor there.

Thanksgiving was nice. We spent the early part of the day at my in-laws and the evening at my sister’s. Usually my family Thanksgiving is a loud, raucous celebration of over-indulgence and reminiscing. Not this year, as everyone else had other obligations. So it was my little family and my sister’s. It was rather nice. We talked, we ate, we danced, we giggled. Fun was had by all.

Thanksgiving is a weird time for my family, as it has been traditionally beset by tragedy. When I was five, my father died a few days before Thanksgiving. Suddenly and without warning. When I was eight, I was diagnosed with diabetes. And when I was 22, my mother went into the hospital early Thanksgiving morning, for the very last time. My last memory of her at home was her sleeping on the couch while my brother and I watched “The Beatles Anthology” documentary. As she was being loaded into the ambulance the next morning she wanted to make sure I had my insulin. Damn her. Even at her worst moment she was still thinking of my welfare.

As of yesterday, she’s been gone for seven years now. In some ways it feels like a century and in others, only moments. The wound is still raw for me, for some reason. I didn’t get enough time with my parents. I’m not bitter about it. Just a little disappointed.

But, oh the places I’ve gone since then. I’ve graduated from college, gotten to work at some amazing jobs, gotten married, had work published, had children and more. But as wonderful as those moments were, I wish I could have shared it with mom. It seems there isn’t a day that goes by where I don’t want her advice on something. Be it house buying, running a home business or raising children. I just want to have her input.

In a way I still do. I often ask myself, “What would Mom do?” That seems to work very well. The wisdom that she shared with me in our too short time together has never left me.

For years after she died, I was a miserable wreck. I was completely lost. My girlfriend at the time tried to help. And so did my friends. But, they were doomed relationships from the start. There was a huge gaping hole that I couldn’t fill. I needed a change.

I wallowed in misery. Sometimes I think that I enjoyed it, because I never did anything to get out of it. Then I went to Disney World for the first time at the ripe age of 23. I have to admit that it saved me. Here I was, looking for an escape from the real world and in the middle of the Central Florida wetlands, I found the perfect fantasy. This place could be anything I wanted it to be.

I had a wonderful time. And I cried when I had to pack up and go home. I’ve never been the toughest guy in the world, and it was never more evident than when my inner-six-year-old came out and sobbed, “I don’t wanna go home.”

The whole time I was there, I kept thinking about how much my mom would have loved this place. How I wanted to share so many of these things with her. I could imagine standing in line for Space Mountain with her and saying, “Mom, are you sure you should ride this? There are a lot of warnings about people who shouldn’t ride it and you haven’t ridden a roller coaster in years.”

“Yeah,” I imagined her saying, “but what a way to go.”

I went back two more times within the next nine months. It was like a spiritual salve that I couldn’t find anywhere else. When mom died I felt like my childhood had as well. And here was this place telling me, “No! You can still have your childhood right here. At 24, 64 or 104. When you walk through these gates, we’re all six.”

In the meantime, relationships died, new ones formed and I sought to find myself. I still wallowed at home; felt my life had no direction. I had stopped writing, stopped enjoying most things. Wished I could go back to Disney World. Day dreamed constantly.

Then, one month after returning from a trip that probably broke me financially, I met my wife. I found that puzzle piece that fit the gaping hole.

She doesn’t realize it, but my wife possesses many of the same qualities that made my mother a unique individual. She’s an amazing mother, who would do anything for her children. She loves to cook. I often have to add extra spice to her chili. She rarely thinks about herself and is always looking for a way to make someone else’s life a little bit better. And I’m thankful for every single second I get to spend with her.

Case in point. Last night she was telling me about a gift certificate she won at work. “Maybe I’ll buy something nice for you,” she said.

“No,” I said. “You won that. You should buy something for yourself. Something that would make you happy.”

“But,” she replied, “getting you something would make me happy.”

And she always makes sure that I have my insulin.