November opens the door to the holiday season, and for many, it is a month of warmth, family, and gathering. But for those of us who have lost someone we love, it can also be a month that magnifies absence. The chair that sits empty. The voice that no longer joins the laughter. The favorite dish that doesn’t make it to the table. Grief has a way of slipping into the season, sitting beside us, reminding us of what once was.

This year, I felt the weight of that reminder when I thought about my Aunt Jo. Every Thanksgiving, she would make her sweet potatoes — the kind that tasted like tradition, like family, like home. That dish will be missing from my plate this year. And yet, she is still here in memory, in story, and in the love she poured into that kitchen.

So in her honor, I will try to recreate it. Not just the recipe, but the spirit behind it. I can almost hear her laughing, giving instructions I didn’t ask for, smiling that smile that could brighten a room. Even in her absence, she remains.

That’s the thing about love — it outlives the body.

What our loved ones poured into us doesn’t evaporate when they transition. It stays:
in our habits,
in our holidays,
in our recipes,
in our hearts.

Yes, November can sting. Yes, the season can remind us of what we will never again taste, hear, or touch. But it can also remind us of what we still carry — the lessons, the laughter, the legacy.

So this Thanksgiving, I honor Aunt Jo.
I honor the dish that fed us, and the love that sustained us.
I acknowledge the ache, but I also claim the gratitude.

Because even when the plate is empty, the love is not.