Three people sit around a meatloafed dinner table. One man who lost his wife in summer’s sun. Another man who thinks he hides the fear of losing his. And between them, me.
All of us together thinking thoughts of turkeys past; each of us avoiding tomorrow’s grumbling giving thanks. Meatloaf is our life now, the golden crisp skin of feasting gone, we say.
But meatloaf is survival; baked potatoes topped with butter are a base. The grapes of last year’s harvest can now be poured into a glass and so we smile and learn to savor ketchup’s tang.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology
Susan, may you have a blessed day. I haven’t had the energy to do more than post on my blog these days. I hope to get back to faithful reading of yours over this weekend.