For our last meeting the Pamlico Writers decided to share short stories with a Thanksgiving theme. I decided to do a little experimental writing. When our Writers Read group used to get together in Belhaven, hosted by Marni Graff, there was an amazing young writer there who wrote a story in second person. Blythe was only a teenager at the time but her talent was astounding and her story has stayed with me. Now my little experiment is nowhere as good as what she wrote but I am proud that I attempted something so very different, I hope you enjoy it. Happy Thanksgiving.

Just a little post script: this is more like Christmas morning but since I was writing it for Thanksgiving I took creative license. I am thankful for the little kindnesses my family shows me and this is almost a true story.

Thanksgiving Morning

You awaken to the aroma of coffee brewing and muffled voices. Staggering from your bed you bump into the chest at the foot of the bed and stumble towards the bathroom. After relieving your swollen bladder, brushing your teeth, and taming the wild fluff on your head you follow your nose to fresh brewed coffee.

Your oldest son turns from his task at the stove and apologizes, “Sorry mom, we didn’t mean to wake you. We were trying to be quiet.”

“I smelled coffee.”

Smiling, your middle son hands you a cup and turns to his older brother and says, “I told you she’d be awake as soon as she smelled the coffee.”

The oldest grandson squeezes past with a couple of dozen eggs.

“Did you have to wait for the hens to lay them?”

“Yep,” he replies with a grin and does a reverse squeeze out of the kitchen and out of his uncle’s reach. He gives you a brief hug as he exits.

The scent of roasting garlic mingles with the sweet smell of cinnamon and brown sugar. Wrinkling your nose, you ask, “What’s with the garlic? I thought you were making French toast casserole?”

“I am. Ryan wanted to get a head start on lunch.”

Number 2 grandson lifts his head at his name. The headphones give him an alien profile and allowed him to be oblivious to the previous drama. “Hey grandma.”

“Hey, whatcha making?”

“Garlic butter.” He returns to his task squeezing roasted garlic from its skin and blending it with melted butter, olive oil, and chopped basil.

“Why don’t you sit down with your coffee until breakfast is ready,” the oldest son suggests. “We’ve got this.”

Feeling pampered and knowing you’ll spend most of the rest of the day in the kitchen preparing the Thanksgiving meal, you smile and nod and shuffle off to your recliner to take advantage of the reprieve.