thanksgiving_sunday raze we hide in the basement from the noise that never lets us catch our breath. not that it can't find us down here. but it has to work harder to shake the windows and walls this far from the firmament. my feet keep plucking particles of paint from the concrete floor and giving them to the thickest blanket on this bed. a stale fortune_cookie promises a surprise that will set me free. the bottle of water beside my head is too drunk to keep its story straight. stacked cardboard boxes do their best imitation of an astomatous nightstand. i tell you i'm off to floss the turkey stuck between my teeth. you hear me say i'm going upstairs to look for inner peace. "bring some back," you say. i return with the taste of mint on my tongue. no calmer than before. above us a brainless bird shrieks, with wings that are little more than ornamental and blades where a beak should be. 251012 ... ovenbird I arrive with a pyrex dish full of brussels_sprouts I spent the afternoon roasting. I hug my husband’s cousin. I say, “I’m so sorry about your dad.” The hug lasts no more than two seconds. “Oh well. It was his time,” the cousin says. Then we talk about the exorbitant cost of online software subscriptions. There’s a fire going–the first of the season. As I stare at the flames and my eyes defocus I hope that when my own father dies my love brings me to my knees and my grief shows me what it means to lose a person who has meant everything to you. I hope that I will fall into the arms of someone who cares about me and they will witness my tears and hold me upright until I’m able to stand on my own again. When my mind drifts back to the conversation, I discover we’re talking about times when people found money on the ground. I don’t have any anecdotes that seem worth contributing. I sit down for dinner at the table I have sat down at nearly every year of the last eighteen. We eat the turkey wrapped in bacon and stuffed with sausage. We pick at my brussels_sprouts which now resemble charcoal briquettes after an unfortunate reheating accident. My mother-in-law apologizes profusely and I say it’s no big deal but I’m secretly wishing I’d stuffed myself full of brussels_sprouts at lunch when I had the chance. Dessert is not apple pie, but it’s delicious–phyllo pastry and custard baked into something resembling a cake and topped with walnuts. It’s light and crisp and seems to have honey running through it. I’m sent home with leftover dessert and a baggie with a sad remnant of turkey in it. At home I make tea and feel an unexpected urge to cry. My stomach is full and I am warm, though the night is dark and rainy. I’ve had dinner with people who care for me in their way, but I can’t help but wish for hugs that nearly crush my ribs and a little too much wine and a few dirty_jokes thrown in for good measure. I shuffle a deck of tarot cards, reorganize the pile of books by my bed, and turn to face the meteoric fall into Christmas. I summon a guttering gratitude for the privilege of missing people. I know that not everyone is so lucky. 251012 what's it to you? who go blather from