Happy Thanksgiving

It was the end of November, and the evening held the warmth of the last days of Indian Summer, with only a slight nip of fall in the air. The smell of burning leaves graced the night air. I sat in the shadows of my front porch, rocking and listening to the night sounds. My old gray sweater wrapped tight around me to keep out the chill. These old bones didn’t take to the cold anymore.
The rocker beside me was empty. I wanted someone to share this incredible evening. Fall was my favorite time of year. The trees were dressed in brilliant shades of red, gold, and bronze that would soon be stripped of their leaves.
The owl that roosted in the old oak tree in Mrs. McGinty’s yard was hooting up a storm. I saw him flying at night, searching for his next meal.
A dog barked down the road, and another two blocks over answered. All around me are the sounds of the neighborhood and cars driving back and forth. Friends and family visiting for the holiday. I didn’t have many visitors anymore.
Time has passed, and friends as well have passed. I’m a relic of years gone by in the blink of an eye.
I don’t know why I’m sitting out here alone. Something is wrong, but I don’t know what. I can feel it in my brain but can’t focus on it. It’s Thanksgiving. That much, I know.
My daughter Janie parks her car in our drive and, carrying a pie, rushes past, not seeing me.
I hear her call, “Hi, I’m home. I brought the pumpkin pie.” before I hear her scream. “Mom, Mom, oh my God. Dad, where are you? Dad.”
Janie runs out the door, cell phone in hand, hysterically crying as she dials 911.
I let her finish the call and watch as she sits on the porch steps, shaking and crying.
From my place in the shadows, I call to her softly, “Janie.”
“Dad?” Janie jumps. I’ve startled her but relieved and questioning at the same time. “Dad, are you ok? What happened?”
It all becomes clear as I drop the bloody carving knife in my hand.
“The turkey was dry again.”