Thanksgiving

 

November 27, 2025

Woke Thanksgiving morning to the first ever blooms upon my camellia, which sat flowerless four years amid the ailanthus. 

Trip to see DJ in the convalescent facility. He’s in good spirits, wanted me to bring him peppermint mocha from Starbuck’s. The facility was surprisingly brimming with good cheer. 

Remembering grandma’s house Thanksgivings all those years ago, when you thought nothing would ever change, when you thought you would be safe forever. The grandparents are gone, all the parents are gone except Aunt Barbara, one of the grandchildren is gone. No one, not one, was left unshattered. 

I remember dad saying that one of the consolations of old age was happy memories. I have happy memories, but I have to summon them. Those that come unsummoned recount brutalities, faux pas, awkwardness, inattention, ignorance, mortification, mean-spiritedness on my part, almost all of which were unintended, often unconscious, until later reflection. Why torment me with those now? What am I supposed to learn? In almost every case I can say that, given who I was and the experiences I had, it would not have occurred to me to do otherwise. 

In my shadowy attic on the brink of winter, I can say, perhaps deluded but absolutely sincere, that I have been faithful to God. I cannot see the Invisible World, nor what happened on my account behind the Great Veil, but judging by what I perceive, he has not been faithful to me. I’m sure I once again misjudge. But I must write it. Keeping it secret helps nothing, even if nothing can be helped.