In keeping with this week’s holiday, we wanted to post another Thanksgiving writing from one of the incarcerated women with whom we write weekly. Especially since this Thursday is one of very few in the year when we will not be writing together. TH’s writing invites you into her family with simple direct intimacy; and leaves you haunted with the harsh reality of the change a single year can bring to a family.
I remember last Thanksgiving . . .
it was just our little family
you, me, our five-year-old son.
Without much money, a feast was impossible
So we had stuffing; you made pork chops,
and all three of us filled our stomachs.
Trudging upstairs, little man exclaimed
“Mom and Dad, that was great!
My belly feels full!”
As we climbed to the top step
we ushered him into the bathroom,
bubbles piled in the tub.
He jumped in, bubbles crashed and popped
you and I snuck a look at each other, chuckling.
I knew we both thought that although we didn’t have much,
we had each other. That was the miracle
of Thanksgiving. To me, anyhow.
The fact that our daily struggle culminated
once a year into a day of reflection
and gratefulness that we still
held each other every night and
we made it through another year.
This year, nothing remains . . . Continue reading