Thanksgiving Day is rainy wet and barely-there cool.
It’s goodbye and see you tomorrow and I love you and have fun.
It’s closing the door only when I can’t see their shadows anymore.
It’s standing in the middle of the room, cold coffee cup in hand, surveying the newly painted but still-the-same beige walls.
It’s Al Roker and Matt Lauer and the vacuum from the unit on the left mixed with banging and crying and yelling from the unit on the right.
It’s a third cup of coffee and forbidden cream, smooth on my tongue as it pierces my gut.
Thanksgiving Day is moving furniture to make room for the tree, scrubbing baseboards and hanging pictures.
It’s sitting down cross-legged on the floor to think but pushing the thoughts away.
It’s wishing I could be there instead of here and knowing I can’t fix it.
It’s catching up on an overloaded DVR and past-due deadlines.
It’s work…IT’S WORK…It.Is.WORK.
Thanksgiving Day is wine at 3 and leftovers for the first meal of the day.
It’s the same fuzzy pajamas I slept in, no bra, bare feet.
It’s Billy Joel and Elton John and World Café and SOB,
Natalie Merchant and Lake Street Dive and 90.9 The Bridge.
It’s persistent raindrops on my window that coo at me with each splat:
It’s ok…it’s o-k-ay…it is all ok.
Thanksgiving Day is silence and candles and more wine at 6.
It’s writing and doubting and talking myself down.
It’s thoughts of maybe and what if and if only and why.
It’s roasted veggies and make-do curry and rice for dinner.
It’s dancing in the kitchen like no one can see me.
Because no one does.
Thanksgiving Day is cold. Dark. Soggy.
It’s sweet texts and surprise calls, The White Stripes and get back, Loretta and Shoegaze by Brittany the badass and her band.
It’s sifting through the piles of books and choosing none.
It’s staring down what paralyzes me and typing the first word.
Then the next.