The date is November 23, 2045. You are standing in a kitchen that smells like roasted sage and browned butter. Outside, the world is quiet. It is too quiet. The delivery drones have stopped buzzing for the holiday. The automated traffic grids are silent.
You look at the turkey in the oven. It is a real bird. That cost you a fortune. Most people are eating nutrient paste or 3D-printed protein slabs today. But not you. Not today. You wanted to feel the grease on your fingers. You wanted to risk burning the skin.
This is the last thanksgiving.
Everyone knows it. The Global Neural Link goes live on Tuesday. They call it the Great Clarity. No more hunger. No more misunderstanding. No more chaos. But also, perhaps, no more this. No more messy, loud, imperfect family dinners.
What is the mood in the house?
You walk into the living room. Your family is there. Usually, they would be on their screens. They would be arguing about politics or watching the hyper-news feeds. Today is different. The screens are off.
Your uncle sits in the corner. He looks tired. He has refused the preliminary implants for years. He is scared. You can see it in his hands. They shake slightly when he holds his coffee mug. He knows he has to join the Link eventually. The law passed last month.
Your niece is sitting on the floor. She is six. She is playing with wooden blocks. She doesn’t understand that next week, she will have access to the sum of human knowledge instantly. She won’t need to learn how to stack blocks. Gravity equations will be downloaded into her brain.
You watch her. You feel a heavy lump in your throat. This is why you gathered everyone. You needed to remember what ignorance looked like. You needed to celebrate the struggle. That is the purpose of this last thanksgiving.
Why did you choose to cook?
The Smart Home system offered to cook the meal for you. It has a five-star chef algorithm. It could have roasted the turkey to the molecularly perfect temperature. It could have mashed the potatoes without a single lump.
You turned it off.
You wanted the lumps. You wanted the imperfection. Cooking is hard work. Your back hurts. Your feet ache from standing on the tile floor. You burned your thumb on the oven rack earlier. The blister is throbbing.
You press your thumb against the cool granite counter. The pain makes you feel alive. In the Clarity, pain will be modulated. It will be a notification, not a feeling. You want to feel the burn while you still can.
The timer dings. It is an old-fashioned sound. You pull the bird out. It is slightly charred on one side. You smile. It looks terrible. It looks perfect. It is the centerpiece of the last thanksgiving.
Who is sitting at the table?
You call everyone to the dining room. The chairs scrape against the floor. That sound is harsh and real.
Your mother sits at the head of the table. She has dementia. Her memory comes and goes like a fading radio signal. Next week, the Link will fix her. It will repair the neural pathways. She will remember everything. She will be sharp. She will be brilliant.
But she won’t be her.
Right now, she looks at you with confused eyes. She asks if you are her brother. You take her hand. Her skin is paper-thin. You tell her you are her son. She smiles. That smile is genuine. It is earned. It is not a programmed response.
You pass the green beans. The bowl is heavy. Physical objects have weight. You wonder if you will miss gravity when your mind lives in the cloud.
Your brother pours the wine. He spills a little on the tablecloth. A red stain spreads. Usually, you would be annoyed. Today, you stare at the stain. It is permanent. It is a mark of an accident. Accidents are about to become obsolete. You cherish the mess.
This messy table is the heart of the last thanksgiving.
What are you talking about?
Conversation starts slowly. No one wants to talk about Tuesday. No one wants to talk about the upgrade.
Your uncle clears his throat. He starts telling a story about his first car. It was a gas engine. It smelled like petrol and rust. He talks about how it broke down in the rain. He talks about fixing it with a wrench and a curse word.
The kids listen. Usually, they would be bored. Today, they are fascinated. They sense the finality of it. They are listening to a history lesson from a living ghost.
You ask your mother about her childhood. She talks about snow. She remembers the cold. She remembers losing a mitten. It is a small, insignificant memory. But to you, it is gold.
You realize something important. We are defined by our limitations. We are defined by what we cannot do. We are defined by the cold, the broken cars, and the burnt turkeys. Clarity will take away the limits. Will it take away humanity too?
That is the question hanging over the last thanksgiving.
Is the food any good?
You finally eat. The turkey is dry. The stuffing is too salty. The cranberry sauce is still in the shape of the can.
It tastes incredible.
You chew slowly. You focus on the texture. You feel the fibers of the meat. You taste the rosemary and the thyme. You drink the wine. It burns your throat.
Your sister laughs at a joke. She has a loud, snorting laugh. She hates it. She always tries to hide it. In the Link, she will probably edit her laugh. She will choose a melodious, perfect sound.
You listen to the snort. You memorize it. You want to keep that sound in a safe place in your brain. You want to lock it away before the update overwrites it.
You look around the table. Everyone is eating. Everyone is smiling. For a moment, the fear is gone. There is only the biological imperative to feed. There is only the tribal need to be together.
You raise your glass. You don’t make a speech. You just nod. They nod back. They know. This is the last thanksgiving.
What happens when the plates are empty?
The meal ends. The plates are scraped clean. The bones are piled on a platter.
Usually, the cleaning robots would swarm the table. They would dissolve the grease and sterilize the surface in seconds.
You stopped them. You fill the sink with hot water and soap. You hand your brother a towel. You wash the dishes by hand.
The water is hot. The soap smells like lemon. You scrub a plate. Your brother dries it. You fall into a rhythm. Wash. Rinse. Dry. Wash. Rinse. Dry.
It is a meditation. It is a simple task with a clear beginning and end. Soon, tasks will not exist. Only directives. Only data flows.
Your brother looks at you. He has tears in his eyes. He wipes them away with the dish towel. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to. You are brothers. You share blood. Soon you will share a hive mind. But right now, you share this sink.
This chore is the closing ceremony of the last thanksgiving.
How does the night end?
The family leaves. They hug you at the door. The hugs are tight. They hold on a little too long. They are memorizing your physical frame.
You stand on the porch. The air is cold. You look up at the stars. The satellites are blinking. They are ready to beam the signal.
You go back inside. The house is quiet again. But it smells like food. It smells like life.
You sit on the couch. You look at the leftover pie on the counter. You are full. But you take a fork. You eat another bite.
You are savoring the gluttony. You are savoring the waste. You are savoring the choice to do something bad for you, just because you can.
You close your eyes. You let the sugar rush hit you. You let the fatigue settle in your bones. You are tired. You are full. You are human on google.
What is the takeaway?
The sun will rise tomorrow. The world will change. The chaos will turn to clarity. We will gain everything. We will lose something.
But you have this memory. You have the taste of the dry turkey. You have the sound of the snorting laugh. You have the heat of the dishwater.
You drift off to sleep on the couch. You dream of broken cars and snowstorms.
You made it count. You honored the harvest.
You survived the last thanksgiving.
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