Family gathered.
23 in all.
Sleeping on couches.
And in corners.
And on blow up mattresses in the basement.
Each taking turns in the kitchen.
Preparing the food.
Washing the dishes.
Preparing more food.
Washing more dishes.
There was laughter.
And, tears.
And conversations.
And games.
And a feast spread out on the table.

But, the best part of Thanksgiving
Was playing in the leaves.
Donated by the backyard maple tree.
Carpeting the ground.
Raked into a pile.
Jumped in.
Tossed into the air.
Laid down in
While small hands buried me in the smell of fall.
We pretended while we played.
We were leaf monsters.
Or sharks.
Or whatever else a young mind could see in that pile of leaves.

Maybe the next time we play.
It will be in the snow.
Or in the sand.
Or in a fort constructed out of blankets and pillows.
Who knows?
But I know this.
Wherever.
Whenever.
We will let our imaginations run wild.
Loose upon the world.
Changing leaves to the ocean.
And today into some promised tomorrow.