So I've wondered to my own self why I'm not compelled to join in this fun. And in a melancholy way I can't seem to explain I remember I carry my thanks around with me all the time. Some times I lay it out for display, but mostly I just see it, have it with me. And I haven't forgotten why that is the case.
I haven't forgotten being cold and tired and wanting someone to take away my ache so I could rest. I am thankful that despite so many days of wear, I have had splendid days of great comfort and peace.
I haven't forgotten being hungry, hungry so that it was screaming in my head, and too shy and too admonished by my station to ask for more, knowing often there wasn't any anyway. I am thankful for the greatness of every meal, the bountiful and the not so, because all of it nourishes.
I haven't forgotten being lonely in the quiet and pale of an empty play space or a seat untaken. I am thankful for my company, even in its absence, knowing it fills me and finds me when I am lost now. That is truly a blessing.
I remember as a child being dressed for a special day, fresh and clean, hair brushed to a soft wave along my face, perfume about my neck and along my arms. I remember the pinch of patent leather shoes and the crimp of stockings against my toes. I remember being received in love and warmth by family and friends, now gone, smiles all about, and arriving at a table filled with every treat and delight I could have wanted. And I remember thinking 'Be grateful for this day.'
I am. Every day.
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