I am waking, slowly.  I am in a room high on the 16th floor.  I am craving silence.  Complete silence.  But it will not come here high in this room.  The fan will continue its incessant turning, and the companion to my left his gentle hum.

I am wondering why I am not home.  Then it comes to me that I have no home.  I sleep in the loft of a farmer, and I have a cabin nearby that houses me.  The farmer, though not my lover, and I have a rhythm of share that exchanges almost without maintenance.  It is a silent movement.  Completely silent.

I am reading OS posts on Thanksgiving morning. Nanatehey has A Snake in the Garden. Mikelpoet's To Show Me The Stars  in Gratitude is a keeper. Lea Lane's Two Fantasy, Faraway Thanksgivings & What I Learned causes me to reflect on my own Thanksgivings far away.

I remember packing three small children and sending them out the door.  New traditions taking root carrying children to another mother, another table, another year.  Today I can't remember why we did not alternate, except that at the time it made sense in ways that no longer matter.  My children's father left them when I left him. He made table space for them once a year, a Thanksgiving setting.  The space itself seemed to fill a hole and the momentum in the house began to swell as the children annually expressed, We're going to our daddy's house.  At first I raged against this slackworth filling, this absent father's claim on my three joyous hearts.  The impressions that have remained with me are of my children leaving, and of the least one turning, running back, hugging me tightly and saying, Happy Thanksgiving mama, I hope you are not alone. 

For me Thanksgiving formalities were now surpassed by travelers of the heart.  The waking at first light after sleeping snug in a down bag beside a river. The feasting on pecan crusted fish we'd caught the night before,  the roaming of thickets.  Once I spent Thanksgiving in another state in a country inn.  Some host prepared the day's repast.  Once in Maine, eating steamers by the bay.  And once I was a'kayaking and a'mushrooming and in the evening a'making lobster bisque.  And once alone and silent in the house, roasting a hen, stoking a fire, and writing in a cozy chair.

Later this morning, I'll travel to my daughter's house.  We'll drink Sangria, toasting.  The noise of new unions, new children will be loud.  Music will be playing, and there will be be more faces at the table.   The son will carve the turkey.  I will drift in and out of rooms and climbs stairs in search of wee ones.  Games will be played.  The kitchen will be cleaned. My youngest will put her arm around my waist.  And when it is done,  I'll leave solo.  I'll travel the back-road back to the farmer's loft.  He'll have the wood-stove burning. I'll hear the creek's trickle as I step onto the porch.  I'll stand a moment, thankful for this season, this life.  And I'll know, inside my heart, sweet stillness.