Thankful.
They'll ask us. They always do.
We'll sit around one of those tables that's really three shoved together.
There'll be so much food, the table can hardly contain it. And there'd be champaigne if we were in one of those champaigne-houses. Instead, there'll be a dead bird cooked to taste, golden brown, and steaming with the nostalgia of generations and generations before us.
Stuffing and eggs and rolls, which you shouldn't eat unless your desperate - because bread fills your stomach so full that nothing else can. Of course, you'll have a double helping of the deviled eggs; who wouldn't? And you'll pour gravy over the potatoes and corn and bits of turkey slices that layer your play three-inches deep, at the very least.
And you'll mix everything together in each bite, getting the perfect combination. The one that brings you back to when you were just five years old, sitting at the "kiddy table" in the other room, listening to the adults's voices hum and bustle in a cloud above you. The one that takes you back to the last year and the year before that and the year before that, when the only thing you had to be thankful for was that you were still alive.
When it's all said and done, you'll lay miserable on the couch or the floor or the La-Z-Boy chair. You'll groan in pain and you'll promise yourself that you won't eat so much next year, won't eat for the rest of your life, never want to see another turkery or bit of stuffing or sourdough roll or hard boiled egg in your life.
But this time next year, when it all rolls around again, you'll pile your dish high with corn and sweet potatoes and cream peas, and you'll fill your glass full of shimmering liquid. And you'll sit and feast until you promise yourself for the last time that you'll never eat again.
And this time in a week? You'll have had so much stuffing variations and so many cold turkey sandwiches that you'll pray to God they don't kill turkery or produce stuffing anywhere in the world ever again.
But that too you'll renounce when the time comes.
And in the midst of it all, you'll be thankful. Thankful you're still alive after the past. Thankful you still breathe air. Thankful for the ones who love you. Thankful for the blessings in your life.
Thankful for life.
Because that's why we stuff ourselves and goard ourselves and indulge ourselves in this once-a-year gluttony. So we can remember to be thankful.
Funny, that.
-RK
We'll sit around one of those tables that's really three shoved together.
There'll be so much food, the table can hardly contain it. And there'd be champaigne if we were in one of those champaigne-houses. Instead, there'll be a dead bird cooked to taste, golden brown, and steaming with the nostalgia of generations and generations before us.
Stuffing and eggs and rolls, which you shouldn't eat unless your desperate - because bread fills your stomach so full that nothing else can. Of course, you'll have a double helping of the deviled eggs; who wouldn't? And you'll pour gravy over the potatoes and corn and bits of turkey slices that layer your play three-inches deep, at the very least.
And you'll mix everything together in each bite, getting the perfect combination. The one that brings you back to when you were just five years old, sitting at the "kiddy table" in the other room, listening to the adults's voices hum and bustle in a cloud above you. The one that takes you back to the last year and the year before that and the year before that, when the only thing you had to be thankful for was that you were still alive.
When it's all said and done, you'll lay miserable on the couch or the floor or the La-Z-Boy chair. You'll groan in pain and you'll promise yourself that you won't eat so much next year, won't eat for the rest of your life, never want to see another turkery or bit of stuffing or sourdough roll or hard boiled egg in your life.
But this time next year, when it all rolls around again, you'll pile your dish high with corn and sweet potatoes and cream peas, and you'll fill your glass full of shimmering liquid. And you'll sit and feast until you promise yourself for the last time that you'll never eat again.
And this time in a week? You'll have had so much stuffing variations and so many cold turkey sandwiches that you'll pray to God they don't kill turkery or produce stuffing anywhere in the world ever again.
But that too you'll renounce when the time comes.
And in the midst of it all, you'll be thankful. Thankful you're still alive after the past. Thankful you still breathe air. Thankful for the ones who love you. Thankful for the blessings in your life.
Thankful for life.
Because that's why we stuff ourselves and goard ourselves and indulge ourselves in this once-a-year gluttony. So we can remember to be thankful.
Funny, that.
-RK
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