This Thanksgiving, you'll find me in the cold weather of Michigan, in the midst of family in a house with a little white door adorned with autumn wreaths, surrounded by barren maple branches like sculptures in the sky. You'll find a little bit of scented candle on the full dining room coffee table, and a full pot of soup in the lemon-scented kitchen. Upstairs, red-lined satin sheets and ginger-scented body lotions. On the phone, half-started conversations with friends and emails from long-distance loved ones.
I'm not Blue, and I'm not Yours, and I'm not skating away from any Rivers, and I'm not hiding myself in ice castles in the sky. Everything, and I mean everything, is as it should be. For now.
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