Thanksgiving in a Time of Virus
Even the maples in the yard
are scabrous with virus. Still,
they stretch above our sight. Leaves
hang tight to awkward branches.
Fall. Twirl in the wind. It’s raining.
The parade is on. No crowds. Just
cameras. One year, before
my brother was born, my dad
took Sandy and I to his friend’s
office, up high in the Empire
State Building. We watched from above
like demigods. Snoopy passed.
A turkey. Pilgrims and half-naked
Indians. They bounce on air,
tethered to the earth by marchers
holding heavy cable. A half
-century later, I’m in the Hamptons.
Mark’s at home. Dad’s alone
in Vegas, mom in Elkhorn
dulled by a failing mind. Sandy’s
in Nebraska. Exposed. Has
symptoms. A native group in
traditional garb performs,
as a jungle-themed float approaches.
It looks so small. Kate asks Frankie
what she’s thankful for. She says,
“Mommy, daddy, and Hops,” their dog.
She’s four. No one’s asked me what I’m
grateful for. Ashtyn fusses
and chatters. She’s just months old.
We’ve broken protocol to see her.
The wind kicks up. The rain grows
thick and angry, as the branches
bow in supplication.