I love Thanksgiving Day, especially the Thanksgiving Day Parade in New York City.
I remember sitting on my father’s shoulders, watching the parade rise above the crowd. I can still feel the excitement and the cold, and smell the food from the street vendors’ carts. I remember the Christmas decorations, the huge balloons floating past, the music, the dancers, and everyone waving at the beautiful floats. Now I watch it from my living room, but it is not the same.
Thanksgiving at the Jurado houses on Long Island was just as special: the excitement of visiting Grandma and Grandpa, the aunts, and dozens of cousins; the turkey and ham; the enticing aromas; and the sound of my footsteps on the gravel road. I remember the Collazo brothers and my brothers playing on the hills with our go-karts, and being pushed down the hill while trying to steer! There were impromptu football games on the road, the smell of my grandpa’s pipe smoke, Grandma’s perfume, and even the smell of snow.
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