We didn’t know that kind of joy was a fleeting thing— a warm November mirage before the frost took hold was that Thanksgiving. 

Barbed wire split our world in two—home behind, adventure ahead. We ducked beneath with no permission, just our will to stray that Thanksgiving.

You stepped in muck, I nearly choked, alfalfa in your laces, And flung the stink like holy water, baptizing play that Thanksgiving.

The creek wore pyrite jewelry, ice glinting beneath its murmur— God whispered through the freezing stream, “Children, stay,” that Thanksgiving.

A turtle, cracked and bleeding, lay where frost drew lace. We honored broken things, gave them soft clay that Thanksgiving.

Manure and moss clung to our hair, perfume of saints in pasture. No Chanel could match the musk of child’s ballet that Thanksgiving.

They made us dine on patio chairs, our sins too bold for linen— but peas and stuffing never sang so fey that Thanksgiving.

The wagon door, the final glance—no words were fit to cradle the look we shared, that long goodbye bouquet that Thanksgiving.

Cousin, the past returns in scent, in mud, in glance, in silence— and no feast has matched the wild array that Thanksgiving.