The plane landed at McArthur
and the thrill of Thanksgiving
welled up inside me.
Horn of plenty - Mom's apple
pie and confectioned figs. The
television on, and Bill snoring--
mad, after dinner tradition.
Like, discussions that were as loud as
arguments, yet meant - nothing.
But, first the fitting of as much
as one thought one could
possibly eat on one plate.
Food exploring edges of finite
space pushed on by unmeasured
appetite, or infinite obsession.
I could smell it. I could taste
it. I ran across the tarmac, props
of other planes still whirring, trees
baring. Maple yellow-orange, oak
red -- on the ground, they all
look dark, smell damp.
My family standing there, trying on smiles
to see if one would fit. "Dad must be home."
My sister's head shook, no.
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