Death visited over Thanksgiving and took my sister in law’s mother away. My sister in law’s tears fell on my shoulders as I held her in her grief. Death was expected but still a surprise, and the timing uncanny.

We always gather at my brother’s for Thanksgiving, all us cousins and aunties and uncles, at a crowded table filled with an assortment of pies made the day before, plus those special items pulled especially for the holiday: blueberry cheese; panettone; sometimes biryani. Last year, we toted the feast to the in-laws to make it easier. This year, Death arrived on Wednesday morning; the cremation was quickly planned for Friday.

We split the family into those who were staying at my brother’s in-laws home, and those who remained at his house. My niece went back and forth. Staying behind were my mom, my auntie, my cousin, my twelve-year old cousin-nephew,and me.

Left to our own devices, we watched films on tv and ordered pizza. We watched Dear Zindagi (2016), Episode 4 of Ms Marvel ( 2022), and my favorite all time favorite ( seriously, the opening chords of the trailer makes my heart beat a bit faster) Hindi film, Veer Zaara (2004). All of the films had a feminist gaze, though filled with romantic tropes and heteronormative infrastructure. In short, a representation of the Thanksgiving holiday: a clash of cultures, a spread of food, and love.

We gathered for a feast after the Hindu service Friday at the in-law’s, where the house crowded with family and friends. The noise and crowd helped move the grief, providing distraction. We ate without thinking, drank chai, and caught up between hugs and tears.

An Uber driver, a woman from Hyderabad, in head scarf, took us home that night. My mom and aunt were impressed that we had a Muslim female driver. To tell the truth, so was I. She gave me her recipe for Hyderabadi biryani. Next year, I will make it for Thanksgiving.

Yesterday’s moon bloomed full and silver in the sky. It kept playing hide and seek as I fished for it in the clouds.

I teach a small group writing workshop in early December, and hope to entice a few to share their work, and empty their pockets of poems and notes.

They are a startling sight. Black and gold striped bodies hanging casually on the linen curtains on the French windows. I don’t know how they get in. This morning I found two, far apart. I take a glass tumbler and capture them. Today was tricky, because I had to capture one, carefully place it on the table while I got the other. The second wasp was agitated, so I had to wait until it stopped buzzing and trying to escape. Then I quickly released them into the garden.

It is November, but the bees are still finding their way to the flowers, and the wasps are finding their way into the house. I don’t know ow if they built a nest in, say, the attic space. I don’t think I have an attic; more a crawl space. I used to worry squirrels got in, when I heard the sound of chairs falling, which I was once told is the noise a trapped squirrel in the attic makes. I like my nature outside, I confess. I will walk out the spiders, but swat the mosquitoes.

Then there are the ants. Ants have been making their presence known in streams of military lines which I fight off. They come in all sizes. But I no longer use traps, as I think that what my senior might have licked to damage her stomach. She is on the mend, and I place the cat food in saucers of water. I do the same for my sugar and honey bowls.

Outside, as I write, the leaves are a brilliant mix of orange and yellow, and the blue sky is puffy with clouds. Robins have been eating the last of the wild berries, and the monument is already strung up with holiday lights. I am not sure why the wasps are active, and I hope they will quietly move. Maybe they came in with the flowers I received from my family. Maybe they hitched a ride. In any case, they are set free, back to nature, to build their nests, grow families.