Thanksgiving belongs to my dad. Memories of him come flooding back on this holiday, more so than on his birthday or the anniversary of his death.

From putting the leaves in the table (dad, you’d be shocked to know that after 12 years, it now takes the team only 90 seconds to transform the table from a circle into a large oval) to carving the turkey to taking a quick post-feast snooze on the couch, my father and Thanksgiving were like two peas in a pod.

Now that he’s gone, he still looms large at the table. It’s on this day that I most wish he had lived long enough to meet his grandchildren. He would have been so proud. And thankful.

Love you, dad. I miss you every day, but always a little more on this day than on the other 364.