On my way through and down and over the country roads I imagine what our world would be if we could truly replicate Thanksgiving all year. I’m not talking about being grateful. Not that there’s anything wrong with being grateful. I’m implying there’s something more.
More than a day, it’s a condition, complete with smells, energy, a bowl of potatoes, and slow-sipped coﬀee. It’s the day in the month that is perfect. Novemberly abundance. Sprigs of thyme and sage all over our skin? If I owned a spa, I would create the Novemberly body treatment. Ever listen to Vince Guaraldi Trio’s “Thanksgiving Theme” in isolation from the TV Peanuts special? Do it when you’re driving through country roads. You will summon Thanksgiving and understand more. You will want to call your friends, hear their voices, ask them what they’ve been up to and if they want to have coﬀee or cider or whiskey soon. You might also need to find a bathroom, because I swear these luscious feelings of warmth and together make your bowels move too.
Thanksgiving is also a hunch. One that drives reunion and a clear head. Christmas clogs us up too much. Too many stripes, noises, and overly-friendly notions.
Thanksgiving is you and your dish. A cloth napkin. A glance at some photos and the promise of winter. Now I love winter, so for me, this is wonderful. But even if you don’t love winter, you’re in it for the excuse to settle in. Stay home. Think on goodness.
Thanksgiving is the mindset of pine trees and the soul of dried lemons and fallen sticks. Throw it all in a metal pail and sit under on a bench without saying a word. Not even the colorful leaves to pressure you into a patch or hayride. Just silence among the dying. Death leads to rebirth, and rebirth starts its cycle in winter.
Thanksgiving is a giant cauldron of twisting dreams the color of bark and pistachio. The smell of fragrant hope. I don’t like to miss the fifth hour of the morning in November because it’s full of concord if you look at the sky. November mornings have answers if you ask. Inked in cozy and neighborhood.
Thanksgiving saves the world from itself.
Elaina Battista-Parsons is mostly a YA/MG novelist with her YA debut, Black Licorice, being published by Inked in Gray in early 2022. She also works as a reading coach for students with disabilities. Elaina loves ice cream, antiques, pop culture, and snow. Elaina’s poems and essays have been published by Horse Egg Literary, Vine Leaves Press, and Backlash Press. elainawrites.com