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?"

"Yeah."

"We should pull it behind the tractor."

"YES."

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.