My marriage ended in October. Tomorrow it’ll be one month and twenty six days. I’ve written fifty-seven different eulogies, and I start over every time. I haven’t found the kind of language that does it justice, or even a way to communicate how I feel.

Tomorrow will be Thanksgiving, and it feels oddly symbolic. Tonight, there’ll be no shopping, no oven, no pies. We won’t fall asleep together. I won’t spend tomorrow with family, walking the dog, watching football, setting the table. I won’t pour her a second glass of wine or eat two helpings of dessert. There’s no house to clean when we’re done.

Tomorrow I should be thankful. After all, she’ll be happier this way– but I feel lost, angry, regretful. I feel that this has been the biggest failure of my life. And most of the time I feel nothing.

After three Thanksgivings together, it’s hard to remember the day otherwise. We started traditions, saved recipes, took pictures. We had a box for the champagne corks we got on our anniversaries with two inside. We rented movies on Friday night.

It’s good to be in Saigon on Thanksgiving, lost with friends who are all lost too. I can’t be reminded of it here. I’m a thousand miles from the snow, ten thousand from the blanket, and further from the beating heart beneath it. It’s cold in Minnesota, colder in Saigon.