The
day begins with silence and rain chimneys and fireplaces. The Retriever is
quiet and watchful and amused. It feels like Christmas.
I
muse upon others secluded in my mind but a slight under-chuckle. The years have
been medium, the tiles have been faithful, where floorboards have been vigil.
There’s
music in us as it resounds while miracles come slowly.
Turkeys
are baking. Aromas are wafting. While Love looks lovely. This place in my
thoughts this symphony in our opera even a house with a neighboring kitchen. To
adore something by mere science to deduce a person’s capacity where someone else
laid the footwork. But today is thankful the sun is thankful and the pavement
is giving praise; but something is a bit shady even a bit askew while we
sacrifice and witness to something quite remarkable. Little Suzie is
alphabetical, Little Timothy passed a Spelling B, and Tanya just passed her Bar
Exam. We celebrate our goodness we sense something sweet as we add a little
something to our morning tea. While the couch sits at peace and articles of
clothing are flung and someone is fleeing particular anxieties. The cellar
spiders are vibrating the dog is now barking and Little Henry wants to taste a
bit of something grown—those nectar charms this semi-wrestle, or this fake-out:
a bit of coffee, if but to feel older, while reality is musical.
I
reminisce upon smoky fumes where stench would trickle that odor from strong
cheap vodka. But such outstanding habits so mature about adult-life so skilled
and honoree. I see elders at something we can’t color this deep appreciation
for Good Times while so rich it aches. I see talisman bibles and unlit
candles—those that have been around close to a decade. I see a baby crawling
looking and chuckling while attempting to eat anything. I see overprotective
fathers and casually observant mothers and this scent to perish in oceans. An elder
speaks and we listen and there are more people than seats. We huddle on the
porch, the rain is so delicate, and our sensorium has become this ghetto
terrific.
I
envision poverty and reasons for thankfulness at this technical plurality; our
sons and daughters our need to create memories and our hopes for a forged
tomorrow; a little ham for Gentiles or kosher meats for Jerusalem but human
instincts for one and all; maybe a resolution or maybe a busy schedule but
nothing too much as missing Thanksgiving. Our proud hearts depending so much
upon improbability or remaking mathematical proofs; to romance our stations as
never ashamed of our families where reality says, "Glenn, this is a little too
gray"; indeed, our wishes our delicate Apple Cider, our internal helicopter; so
chromatic such an effusion and whirling into orbits—to adore as such to love
where orchestra is life and studies are first kinship; a prime example, even
exemplary participants, while children are arguing over Hamlet. This outstanding
Thanksgiving Christmas those sips the young may encounter where mother
admonishes such pranks; our hearts warm with deeds, our souls filled with stuffing,
and our minds fraught by tomorrow.
