Misfit Thanksgiving

Under one crooked roof

we gather, a patchwork of tired pilgrims.

The divorcee still learning

how to fold her laundry again, for just herself.

The addict in recovery, counting the

minutes carefully with each small step til the next sun rise.

The single seeker, mid-life, with retired praying hands,

still scanning the sky for a sign.

Fatherless. Family-less.

Yet, here, we are a gathering,

awkward limbs and all,

children squealing over spilled paint,

turning pumpkins into messy mantle heirlooms,

and pine cones into Christmas ornaments.

I tally mark the tablecloth,

one line for each year I sat here solo,

and yet, for the day, they blur

into laughter and sweet potato casserole.

We pass plates around

along with confessions that we already share quietly,

between bites of stuffing and laughter.

Forgiveness is already served,

too loud for the emptiness

that was left at the door.

Later,

we line up for Starbucks

the sweetness a ritual

coffee cups cradle.

The world beyond the windows

is quiet for a day

and less cruel for a moment.

Here, we are enough,

a holiday embroidered from imperfect threads.