I am grateful we are those women, the ones who roll into the final hours of the night in soft focus and warm friendship, having traveled the distance of instants from those early days in Ohio to now. I liked us then, and I like us now, where we are in our lives, who we are in our lives. This Thanksgiving we will be in our separate corners, but I carry you with me no matter where I am or what I am doing.
Just a little walk down Peppertree Lane, past the park benches weighted by tourists licking cones of sweet confections having followed the wafting smells of vanilla and sugar. The line snakes down the brick walkway ending just beyond the door to the sweets shop, the place of toasties, coconut flakes doused in rich chocolatey goodness. Tonight I head up the alley, the path less taken, to avoid the vestiges of summer only to find the steps to the parking lot lumbering under another pack of sweet searchers. And I turn to look into the shop, flush with faces anticipating their treats, the little boy in the corner whose nose is pressed to the glass, the pink plastic tasting spoon of consideration held aloft, and everyone illuminated by the light from the cold vetrina holding the vats of creamy gelato goodness.