When I was a kid, we went to one of two places for Thanksgiving: South Carolina to visit my father’s family or Tennessee to visit my mother’s. As a little kid, I preferred Tennessee. Not because of personalities or anything so silly — no, I preferred Tennessee because Uncle N and Aunt L had a farm, with a lot of land and a large barn.

It was fourteen years ago today that we last visited that space. K and I had just moved to the States, and it was our first Thanksgiving in America.

We’d already visited family in South Carolina in the summer, so we went to Tennessee to spend Thanksgiving.

My mother and Uncle N, her older brother

It was shortly after this — a year or two — that Uncle N passed away, and Aunt L, unable to take care of that much property herself and unwilling to figure out a way to do so, sold the farm and moved. So this was the first and last time we were all together like this for Thanksgiving at their house.

Uncle N, my father, and I just before dinner begins

Fourteen years ago. Everyone looks so young, so not-tired.

My mother during our traditional after-dinner Uno game

Our daughter was over a year away. We were talking about starting a family, waiting for jobs and such to settle down. Our son — not even an idea.

Fourteen years later and they’re here while my mother and Uncle N are not. It’s inevitable and unstoppable, this passage of time, but every now and then, I bump into something that reminds me just how much has changed in how little time.