It’s pie dough between my fingers and I’m tucking it under, slowly working my way around the dish. I find it beautiful; the way the fat and the flour and the water do a half-dance and leave a lot undone; swirls and whirls of color which become airy pockets, flaky crust.
It’s his laugh as I push him in the infant swing under bronze fall skies; an identical giggle each time I catch his eye on the forward swoop. He doesn’t tire of it; he can’t get to the bottom of the novelty, and neither can I. The older I get, neither can I.
How many times have the November-defiant roses stopped me in my tracks with their unseasonable magenta pink? They keep raising their audacious faces to the sun, to the short-lived fall sun, and they say, “Who cares? I’ll bloom yet.”
And the older I get I agree with the roses. Who cares? I’ll bloom yet. I’ll enjoy, I’ll see, I’ll live, who cares if the mums have come and gone and the grapevines are shriveled and dry? There’s still sun, see?
And there’s still swirls of fat in the pie dough and YouTube compilations of cats being afraid of zucchinis and children, oh dear children, saying all sorts of things, and you’ve just got to tilt your audacious head back and laugh from your very marrow.
The older I get and the more dear ones I’ve seen tucked into their graves, the more I encounter with joy those honest pleasures of life, pedestrian and exquisite. The warm feeling in my throat after the first swallow of coffee in the morning. Flipping the pillow to the cold side and sinking into it. The warm cheek of a sleeping baby against my lips. It affects me so, this novelty of living; of tasting and smelling and doing and being. What a lark it is to have a body and to move it about in the world.
As I get older, I am the child with a bulging bag of piñata loot, hopping with joy, and I am oh-so-thankful.
Wishing you and yours a very alive, very lived, Thanksgiving.