Thanksgiving Home Research Paper

Paper plates, plastic forks and a pot of spaghetti is not how I imagined my Thanksgiving holiday. It was not a house packed with chattering family members or a buffet filled with five different kinds of the same green bean casserole. Instead, my dad, mom and brother sat with me elbow to elbow at a round fold-out table in the center of our vacant house. I blankly stared at each member of my family and guided my fork back and forth across my plate, trying the hide my discontent, and wishing we were truly home. In that instance I could not list but two things I had to be thankful for.
I was twelve years old when my parents made the supreme decision that our family would be moving. There was no definite reason given to me about why my parents were deciding to suddenly make a dramatic change. All I knew was that in the matter of a week my childhood home and everything I had grown to know would no longer be mine. Our house was put on the market and by the second day it was sold. Just two days later all of my belongings were shoved and stuffed into brown cardboard boxes and taken across town to what would soon become my new home.

I was never outgoing as a child and always seemed to shy away from change. So, walking into school on that first day back and not recognizing a single soul was the equivalent to me experiencing that dream where you walk into a crowed area and realize you forgot to put your clothes on and everyone is staring. I was a chicken among geese and everyone knew it. I spent my time doing all that I could to fade into the background and hide from the unfamiliar faces. That was until I was unexpectedly pulled from the shadows and shown that starting over was not the end of the