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I wonder if I am the only person ever to weep at putting the Thanksgiving turkey in the oven.

No, I do not mean that I shed tears for the fowl that offered itself so that my family could celebrate Thanksgiving (although, I do appreciate the gesture). No, I cried because I was able to cook a turkey all by myself.

In the decade since my husband and I acquired our antique dining table, my mom arrived on my doorstep early on Thanksgiving morning to help prepare the meal for our extended family.

Laughing and talking, we would bathe the partially frozen bird in the kitchen sink so we could wrestle out the giblets and neck, then pat the turkey dry and cram it with mom’s stuffing, lovingly made using her mother’s special recipe. We would deposit the bird into the oven and then relax and enjoy a cup of tea, reminiscing over the past year, discussing her latest craft project, and her grandchildren’s latest adventures.

Last year, I remember proudly telling my mother I believed I was finally ready to prepare the turkey all by myself. This year, I found myself teary-eyed at the kitchen sink, just me and the bird. "That's not what I meant when I said I can cook a turkey by myself," a voice in my head shouted.

I meant that I can, but I don't want to have to.

And so began the preparations for our first Thanksgiving without Mom.

My mom, my sister and I have always shared the cooking tasks. Mom made the stuffing, the baked corn and the red Jello with the marshmallows on top, the kids' favourite.

My sister was tasked with making the pumpkin pies and I the mashed potatoes and the turkey. In Mom's absence, I added the stuffing and corn to my list and my sister added the Jello to hers.

Dad's culinary learning curve since Mom's passing has been steep (yes, it is possible to screw up powdered mashed potatoes, and no, the paper separating deli cheese slices does not add nutritional value to a grilled-cheese sandwich).

Dad's chief Thanksgiving role, besides saying grace, was just to act as Mom's chauffeur: Driving Mom up to my house to help get the turkey ready, home again so she could get herself ready and back to my house for the festivities. This year, however, shortly after I put the turkey in the oven, my phone rang.

“I made cranberry sauce for today,” Dad said.

"Pardon? Who is this? Dad? Is that you?!"

"I made cranberry sauce. I found a recipe."

I was speechless. He had not bought a canned version to bring, had not even asked for help; Dad made cranberry sauce.

I gathered my wits about me. "Wow, Dad.Thank you. I am looking forward to trying it."

I thought about his gesture as I completed the preparations for our family gathering. I set the table with the Noritake bone china, silver and glassware my late mother-in-law had insisted I include in my wedding registry. For decoration, I added the silver candlestick holders that had belonged to my grandmother.

That evening, as the candles were lit and the food placed on the table, I surveyed the scene before me.

The table settings sparkled gently in the flickering candles' glow; light and shadows played on the faces of my family seated around the table who were talking and laughing and catching up with each other since we were last all together at Mom's funeral.

As if prodded by a voice from the past, I remembered the antique berry bowl stashed high up in my kitchen cupboards that had graced Dad's mother's table at family events.

The perfect finishing touch, I thought, as I retrieved it and spooned Dad's cranberry sauce into it.

As my grandmother's bowl made its way around the table, I saw Dad's eyes fill with tears. His hands trembled as he offered it to his 15-year-old grandson. How many hands had passed that same berry bowl from person to person over the years ? How many family gatherings had been illuminated by those silver candlestick holders? I saw these pieces in a new light – they are symbols of the loved ones we had lost and of traditions passed down by family whose influence, like indelible fingerprints on glass and silver, continues to touch our life.

Conscious of all that had changed since last year, we gave thanks, we ate, we laughed and we cried as we shared our first Thanksgiving meal without Mom.

A unanimous decision was made over dessert that, next Thanksgiving, Dad would make his newly traditional cranberry sauce and bring something special of Mom's to enrich our Thanksgiving table.

Next year, I will enlist the help of my three children in our Thanksgiving preparations, the new generation of apprentices learning old family traditions. They, like me, become the heirs to these shared customs that teach us the importance of sitting down together at a table to share a meal and be thankful.

And I, of course, had not really been all by myself cooking that turkey. Mom's spirit was with me, guiding me, sharing in the moment even in her absence.

Kelly Brown lives in Cambridge, Ont.