Thanksgiving Eve. Just after 4:30 and though it's still afternoon by the clock, twilight has already all but claimed the day.
The white ducks have gone to bed downstream. I can just see them in their favorite sleeping spot between a graveled shallows and the exposed roots of a leaning sycamore. Any minute now the Canada geese will come winging upstream, talking to one another, heading to wherever it is they bivouac for the night.
I've been busy all day—busy all week, in fact—writing, finishing up the baking, doing every bit of prep work I can before tomorrow's big feast. The cottage is redolent with good smells. In a few minutes I'll put the turkey in the brine for its overnight soak. After that, I intend to build a fire on the hearth, cut myself a thick slice of the banana-walnut bread I baked last evening, and perhaps indulge with a glass of blackberry wine while I watch the last of the light fade from the western sky.
Tomorrow will be a day of celebration. A time to gather round the table with family and friends—those who still hold you dear in spite of your many faults. We'll hold hands and say grace from our hearts, and perhaps we'll then take another few moments to reflect about all the many blessing that have come our way these past months…for we are indeed so very grateful. Then, amid much talk and lots of laughter, we'll share one of the best meals of the entire year.
I hope tomorrow is for you a day of joy and delight, of love and warmth, and that you laugh much and eat lots. From the riverbank to you…