Twenty plus people arrive at my home tomorrow. Lots of cleaning, shopping, cooking. For that I give thanks.
We’re celebrating with my mom, who’s still kicking and funnier than she realizes, siblings, nieces, nephews, friends. For that I give thanks.
Growing up, my sisters and brother and mom lived in government housing. I didn’t really notice that we were poor until the holidays. For that I give thanks.
There are no more days like that for us, and never for our children. For that I give thanks.
Thanksgiving Poem
Cardboard charity box,
left on the back porch
on a dreary early morn.
A big mama chicken?
No, a turkey.
Our very own?
Green beans, corn,
lots of corn, cranberry jelly,
a bag of flour.
Potato flakes—
none of us ever tasted those before—
made flavorful with welfare butter,
a yellow block of sunshine.
A table
with more than two items
to go with the grape Kool-Aid
and tortillas.
One parent,
four children,
all together.
For that, I give thanks.
