| Subject: Letters to Samson - 23 Thanksgiving |
Author:
Holly
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Date Posted: 19:36:30 11/21/06 Tue
In reply to:
Holly
's message, "Letters to Samson - 1" on 18:59:32 06/04/05 Sat
I was planning to write about how unthankful I am.
My Dad is still dead. I forgot, though, the other day. There's this old Italian guy who's been shitting his little dog in front of our house since we moved in seven years ago. Had been. The little dog got old and sore, and the man got friendlier, and the shit stopped happening on our part of the sidewalk. And, then, the little dog was gone.
The other day, there's the guy getting pulled down the street by a golden retriever puppy. I said hi, and we talked about the little dog. I told the guy, yeah, my parents just had to put down their little dog, too.
We're moving. Don't know quite where or when, but it's a nightmare. The "landlords" are going to prison for bank fraud and identity theft. So, goodbye Winter Hill. Landlords are not supposed to discriminate, but they do. Oh, you have a child? You don't work because you're sick? Your husband's a drummer?
Yes, I get that landlords look at us and see noise, broken windows, and an avalanche of medical bills standing between them and their rent checks. But, thank god or providence or whatever it is you give thanks to, we've been able to be good tenants. We pay our rent and our bills. Andrew doesn't play drums in the house. Much. Our place is still standing. The neighbors seem to like us.
So, yeah, even as I lay next to you tonight, listening to you talking about how the Universe is God, because God is everywhere and everyone's connected through God, and this pretty complex little theology that I'm not exactly sure where you picked up, I was not thankful. Not for the rent, not for the roof, not for my now-abridged family.
Decidedly unthankful. Defiantly anti-thankful. I'm sick, and sore, my skin is bleeding. I have a fever, and I still have to clean the cat box and make your snack for tomorrow.
Not in that order.
Don't worry.
Not thankful at all. I am Cinderella, and you're too young for the morose and self-pitying pun I was about to make about "balls." So, anyway, I pull your homework folder out of your backpack. I'm thinking we didn't do any homework tonight.
I'm probably going to be up at the crack of dawn helping you write W's.
Early dismissal tomorrow. A raffle form. A paper turkey.
With feathers.
And writing - yours. It reads: I am thankful for the uNiverSe.
Oh, child. My child. I don't know what to say.
I love you. May you always see and celebrate the connections between and among us. Happy Thanksgiving.
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