The Placecard

There it was. Just resting harmlessly on the table, folded neatly in half so it would sit up straight just north of my plate. It was Christmas eve and in a post-Santa frenzy of shredded wrapping paper, knotted ribbons, torn boxes, and soon to be broken toys, this little piece of paper was the focus of my undivided attention. There were quite a few of these miniature roadsigns to well needed sustenance, but this one was different. I knew it was mine.

Through the scrawled handwriting, the best you can get from a precocious 5 year old but a delight nonetheless, I could read my name written on this little card. I’ve seen my name a gazillion times, so not unexpected way for me to know this was where I was supposed to sit and enjoy the 85 pounds of way too tasty turkey, ham, amazing sweet potatoes covered in a Pompeii-like dusting of a pound of brown sugar, and of course the traditional twice-a-year green bean casserole. But that was not all it said. Right before my name was some more scribbling. Perhaps the most amazing word I’ve seen in a long time. The kind of word that makes you feel important and humble at the same time, undeserving and proud, bringing with it a 64 color crayon box of feelings — happiness, responsibility, being loved, mega warm & fuzzy, all with the unexpected knowledge something adorable just happened.

What is going on here? It appears I’ve arrived. I finally made the big time. And you know what? I feel like I’m home.

The place card read “Papa Mark”.