Wednesday, November 27, 2002

A Trip To Bountiful
And On The Third Day He Rose Again

Va-ca-tion, n. The act of emptying oneself of one's place.


Three humans -- one a mere babe -- drop the dog off with the parents and leave their usual orbits for a whirlwind tour of the lifestyles of the rich and famous.

Our pilgrimage to Florida by way of Connecticut was hardly an act of emptying or emptyness, but it was a catharsis, a letting-it-all-out nonetheless. Like any catharsis, it presents itself to me as raw and sentenceless long after our return. It hardly feels like blog material; my mind is still whirring, processing the raw data, collating, filing the story elements.

The narrative bomb will have to wait. For now, the prosaic raison d'etre:

A Thanksgiving Prayer

Dear Family; Dear Table:

Most families see all their closer relatives on Thanksgiving. But there are always other cousins, great aunts, those who we see piecemeal, in ones and twos, throughout the week. Surely all families have their more distant and disconnected members? Their sisters of the dead who hover behind us like ghosts when we gather? Their few black sheep, their others so much farther from the center of the table that they are not really there at all?

For Aunt Marion I never knew; Martha whom I loved; nameless fathers of grandfathers. For each those who gave love and life to those of us who sit at this table.

For all these blessings, we give thanks.


posted by boyhowdy | 3:01 PM |

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