Today, is thanksgiving.
It is the evening. My stomach is full to bursting. I am chewing on a toothpick. I am sitting on a kitchen stool, with my left leg curled underneath me, my right knee tucked up to my chest. My toes are curled. My sleeves are pulled up to just past my elbows, my hair is a little unkempt. My brother is to my left.
The house is warm. Warm enough-there is a slight draft but I like drafts a lot...so it's perfectly warm. Off behind me the family is chatting and laughing and mocking and sharing.
It isn't my family, but I feel quite at home.
There are eight pies on the counter. Triple berry and pumpkin and apple and chocolate and cream and German and more pumpkin and more creme.
It isn't my family, but I feel quite at home.
Imagine for a second a beautiful, clean penthouse. The view looks over the city, lit up in the dark night. Now imagine it's thanksgiving. The house is too nice. The view is too spectacular. The couch--too firm...
I think you know what I'm trying to say.
It isn't my family, but I feel quite at home.
