by Marjorie Saiser
The adults we call our children will not be arriving with their children in tow for Thanksgiving. We must make our feast ourselves, slice our half-ham, indulge, fill our plates, potatoes and green beans carried to our table near the window. We are the feast, plenty of years, arguments. I’m thinking the whole bundle of it rolls out like a white tablecloth. We wanted to be good company for one another. Little did we know that first picnic how this would go. Your hair was thick, mine long and easy; we climbed a bluff to look over a storybook plain. We chose our spot as high as we could, to see the river and the checkerboard fields. What we didn’t see was this day, in our pajamas if we want to, wrinkled hands strong, wine in juice glasses, toasting whatever’s next, the decades of side-by-side, our great good luck.