Not doing stuff on holidays, even if you aren’t into, or in agreement with the point of the holiday, is isolating and strange.
I watched the championship match between Carlson and Fabiano.

I played on line chess. I finished a watercolor. I learned some new

ASL signs. I ate rice and beans and cornbread.

I talked to the cats.

Once upon a time, in a universe far far away, I ate with my family. We sang around the piano while my aunt played. It was a family occasion. Not about pilgrims and fake history

They’re all mostly dead.

Just another day, drained of whatever meaning it once had.
If it were a large jar, and I struck it, it would ring like a bell reverberating though the streets of an empty city.