Thanksgiving, to the general, undereducated American, is a festival of gratitude—acceptance of difference and a thankfulness towards kinship, humanity.
Thanksgiving, to me—is sharing my late mother’s recipes, and cracking jokes like my father did when i wasn’t old enough to drink a beer.
Tomorrow, Thanksgiving 2020, We have a pandemic amongst us, which grows more deadly by the second.
Smallpox comes to mind.
But we’ll all still cook a meal: warm it up for a day or two; ponder familial ties—Fired up a lifetime.
When will it all be inconsequential?
Why will it all be inconsequential?
How do we keep destroying without a backup plan for the future?
Can I be thankful?
Please, give me a reason.