Fear is served,
heaped, cold, on unseen platter
where empty table
speaks to us.
There was picnic once,
soda fizz
and bright mustard,
where now only air
teasing whispers from
dry grass.
In barren quiet
the words come:
what if I’m the only one?
In this country, dear reader, we enter Thanksgiving week torn. No: shredded. How do we celebrate isolation and dread? If we try to “count our blessings,” how are we not trivializing the losses among us?
More thanks to photographer S.W. Berg for this poignant image.
November 23, 2020 at 12:14 pm
Oh, Maureen, I think we were channeling when you wrote this. 🙂 Happy Monday of a Thanksgiving week like we’ve never seen. Stay well.
November 23, 2020 at 12:25 pm
I would not doubt for a minute that we were channeling. A Thanksgiving week like no other, for sure — and may there never be another one like it. You stay well too, Judy!
November 26, 2020 at 7:02 pm
It’s so tempting to say something cheerful (and I do hope I am safe to imagine you have set aside at least one Thanksgiving treat of the sweet kind I see you celebrating here) but important too to highlight the year’s losses. Perhaps that is what being grateful is all about.
November 27, 2020 at 12:56 am
It’s hard to grasp gratitude this year without feeling guilty since so many have lost so much. There is a balance, perhaps, that time brings. My son and daughter-in-law cleverly designed a heated outdoor eating space on their deck, and so we got to eat together. When we weren’t eating, we were masked, but that was nothing. It was so wonderful to be with them — even elbow bumps are a luxury these days! And, yes, dessert. Prime goo.
November 27, 2020 at 7:26 pm
That sounds perfect or as nearly perfect as we can get at the moment. Goo is just what I was hoping for.