Personal Narrative Essay: Thanksgiving Vacation

I cram back into the overly packed white sports-mom van that my dad owned and shake the snow from ugly, brown crocs. I feel bad about Andrew's glasses, but a simple bottle of glue will fix whatever damaged I caused with the snowball. Dad reminds us how close we are to our “Thanksgiving vacation.” We stopped for gas about two hours from Great Uncle Willy and Great Aunt Rosemary's house in Ohio. Hearing this, I sink back into my seat and lean my head back onto the broken headrest. I cannot help but remember who these people are. They not only raised my father after his mother's death and his father's abandonment, but also, they hit the age of 70 long before I came into this world. Aunt Rosemary sends letters in incredibly illegible handwriting, only translatable by Dad himself, all the time. However, Dad has never particularly

As I slid the knife under the turkey's skin to put more butter under it, I look over to my side to see the door opening. Before I even get the chance to greet Uncle Willy, he already has his mouth open yelling for Dad before he turns to me. I do not think anybody told him that I would be preparing the turkey, as upon seeing me with a knife to the turkey becomes immediately enraged. While he shouts at me trying to figure out why “a child” decides to prep a 40$ turkey, Dad runs in to find out what exactly I did doing wrong. Dad tells me to wash my hands and go sit in the living room while he talks to Uncle Willy, but at this moment I currently cannot breathe very well, so I decide to catch my breath outside. I cannot help but feel slightly relieved that my brothers were elsewhere, likely upstairs playing the Wii we brought, so that they did not witness that. My brothers watching or listening would have made that scene more unbearable than I already found