Memorial Day afternoon around 4:30, I walk outside into a day that is sunny and warm and summery, and almost normal, but the sun is shining through a strange haze. As my yellow lab mix and I walk down our street, I keep staring upward through the air, wondering if I am imagining the haze is more unusual than it is, musing on whether it could be humidity and pollen, and then thinking—ha ha—it's probably smoke from the multitude of families grilling for their Memorial Day get together.

Until recently, okay, until this week, this last thought would have bothered me, everyone together for chips and drinks and a cook out, because I had no Memorial Day afternoon or evening plans with anyone. Sports has no holidays, it seems, and rather often, I find myself spending a solitary holiday because my son and husband are off on a sports-related junket. Such is the case this Memorial Day. I made plans with a friend, but a change in her family's plans had forced her to cancel. And my husband and I don't live near any of our family members on either side.

I do have rather an archaic default vision of holiday gatherings—they consist of family, period. I know the traditional nuclear family, and holidays with the extended family, is not the norm for a large number of us these days, and still I hold it as my measuring stick. Bizarrely enough, I always felt a pang or hurt or remorse when I sniffed a hamburger on the grill or heard laughter from someone's back yard, even though almost every detail typifying these gatherings is something I would normally completely avoid! I don't eat meat. I don't drink. I don't like eating a lot of processed food, or sugar. I don't like big gatherings. I don't like standing around.

What I do like is feeling included, is feeling like I belong somewhere.

I don't like feeling left out.

We used to live in a very socially close neighborhood. Generally my husband and I were invited to events, even though he was never around—sports again—and therefore, I rarely went by myself. But when we weren't invited, and I would see cars lining one of the culdesacs, I would say something to my husband about the party we weren't invited to. One time, my husband, who as I've mentioned here before, has this eerie way of emerging from what seems like an eternally clueless state, and pegging me, replied, "Did you really want to go?"

No, I didn't, I realized. I just didn't want to be left out. Especially on a holiday! When "everyone" is doing something special with special people, at least in my fantasy world.

But I think I've finally made sense with this nonsensical approach, a reaction obviously emotional, and not well thought-out. As my husband says about holidays, it's just a day. He's right, and he's not. It is just a day, but stopping to spend time with family, or remember mothers, or tell our partner how much we love them, is not just something to be easily passed over for convenience sake. What I have realized, finally, is that the number on the calendar doesn't matter. Before my husband and son left, we had a lovely two and half days at the Cape with friends, I had a pleasant dinner with my son Sunday night, and we shared a family breakfast Monday morning. And if Memorial Day is a day to remember loved ones who have departed, I decide I can enjoy thoughts of all loved ones, departed from this earth, or just departed from town!

The smoke isn't dozens of barbecues. My dog and I reach the open field where we like to walk, and I see a friend I haven't seen for a long time, waiting for me with her dog. We start walking, the dogs playing alongside, and she says the haze is from fires in Canada.

I'm thankful to be right where I am.