The giving of thanks

22 Nov

I run to a screeching halt, and my clumsy tracks bear witness to the heavy tread and mad distribution of my boots and gait. I am not afraid to breathe heavily, heaving in large lungfuls of oxygen because no one is around to hear me.

Every day, this race against time. Any time and all time. It is our biggest enemy, is it not? This lack of eternity…

The air tears my throat, and lungs. The tears are quick, the glancing celebration of the end of a race. And as I begin to say the words, I’m not alone.

Thank you. 

A mechanical formula can become my mnemonic. Its sound lingers in the crisp air, for me to recognise a listening ear. The acknowledgement of my begrudged conversation. And I know I’m not alone.

There is a smile in the air, a nod, a welcome arm. But that is too indefinite. For I know the smile, the gesture, the listener.

And I remember to breathe.

Happy Thanksgiving. 

It’s not why you celebrate it but how.

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