I've cried twice this week and it's only Monday. This kitchen table is more of a university pamphlet/application form display case more than it is a kitchen table. I biked to school in the dark and I biked home in the dark (such is almost winter prairie living). I've fought with my parents, I've scrawled viciously into my journal, and it almost feels like there's no weather at all. 

So I left everything, even if only for a few minutes. I lit a paper lantern down at the lake tonight. It was zero and windy and it didn't fly. Still, I left my discontent there on the beach. In the dark I started anew. 

But some things, I kept. Because I didn't want to forget the good in the bad days. My bike rides, as dark as they've been. They mean a thermos of Oh Canada in my backpack pocket and the Vinyl CafĂ© in my ears. The prayers I scrawled out so viciously, but were answered the next morning (He is so good). Standing out on the deck in for no other reason than to feel alive; to feel Winter coming. Sidewalk chalk palms and late night filmmaking. That one city evening when we had Mexican breakfast for supper at Stella's. Sweet Rayvn, who lay with her head on the small of my back and let me cry. She said nothing. It was exactly what I needed to hear. 

Something I wrote yesterday.

a thanksgiving fete.


The morning of, we gathered our passports and you made oatmeal in that particular way that you do. "Bales on the bottom" (mini-wheats). Porridge on top. A spooned-out hole in the middle for milk. Brown sugar and raisins like freckles on your always warm skin. A cup of coffee in a clear mug. "I like to see what I'm drinking," you say. And you don't let me help you, because you're the sweetest kind of stubborn.

We crossed into America in the late afternoon, to celebrate Canadian Thanksgiving. Mostly because 1) we have family there, but also because 2) we're a little strange and we take pride in not making a whole lot of sense.

"Is that a bathtub?"
"We should pull it behind the tractor."

It was then that I realized (for the umpteenth time that evening) how incredible and slightly redneck my family is. And somewhere between the first flame and the second serving at the tailgate and the third bathtub ride and the fourth firework and the eighty-seventh little I love you more, my thankfulness multiplied. 

And today, I'm back to being a stressed out senior. The sky is a white grey and the leaves that were ablaze just last week are now saturated in snow puddles, ceasing to crunch underneath my weight. It's a far cry from the fete that was Thanksgiving weekend. Still, I am thankful.