My 82nd Thanksgiving and I ponder.
Is there still a place for me? I wonder.
There are still new roses in spite of the freeze:
From the north comes a cold biting breeze.
Small child gives me a gift – slick, smooth stone;
Warm little arms go round my neck, off he trots leaving me alone.
Squeal from the kitchen as steam erupts from the potato pot.
Burning fingers are licked – that lid was hot.
The oven-baked pan waits in soapy water,
For the abrasive scrub of my oldest daughter.
Heavy horseshoes, deep hail dents, sleek domino tiles.
Shaggy toys, sticky stickers, heart-felt smiles.
Waxy crayons, scruffy tennies, sharp pointed darts.
Family prayers given with thankful hearts.
I bask before the fireplace, feeling the comfort of soft downy socks, feathery pillow, and a velvety shawl.
Need anything, Granma? No, I already have it all.