Weight of Thanksgiving
by Carol Hamilton

His Palestinian family
always celebrated the day
in their Egypt, Lebanon years,
citizenship a proud thing for his father
who spent enough time in the U. S.
to secure it for himself and his children.
His father relished the day's rites,
his imagined American self.
His son, long-time New Yorker,
has no feel for it, a cardboard event.
My thanks giving is how days
brighten even as the skies darken.
Today my windows are filled
with a chill gray which lifts
my spirits. I will set out the tables,
start hiding things, check times
required for turkey defrosting.
The march of memories lines up:
the sleepy relatives ... too stuffed ...
we children devising mischief ...
even the ersatz Thanksgiving
in Scotland, our turkey tipped
to fit the tiny oven
with no temperature controls.
Nothing has really happened
yet: only the gray window,
the anticipation, the long memories
grown loving, a tiny thing
to begin with, this love,
which could have gone either way.

Illya's Honey Literary Journal

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