Thanksgiving Eve

On the night before Thanksgiving
my heart flies open
so grateful for the moonlit ways
love is all around me,
in me.

On the night before Thanksgiving
I turn up Purple Rain
and dance in my kitchen
while I blend pumpkin
with ginger, fresh eggs,
and milk from a can.

How did I learn to make crust
flakes with unsalted butter and unbleached white flour
when I wipe my hands on my apron
like all my aunts and my mother
who only used the luxury of Crisco?

The turkey is in the brine
for the meat eaters. The beans
and Brussels sprouts will be roasted with extra virgin
before the potatoes are mashed and whipped
and we always admire the view of the table
lit with candles.

On this night before Thanksgiving
my sons have scattered with all the ways time
disappears. My daughter will arrive under the cover of dark
with her sweet lover. I am lost in the undertow of grief
and can't catch my breath. Perhaps the bread will save me.

And, as if it isn't enough,
this may be the last eve for my father
as he catches all the breath
that has been given to him. Thanks be.
Thanks be given.

What a feast we will have.
What a feast.
What?

Hold my hand tonight.
It is the only prayer I can remember.