I suppose you were expecting a poem of Thanksgiving. When every meal of cranberry sauce and homemade rolls fades into another memory of another parade, I’m uninspired. Today someone will ask what I’m grateful for. I’ll answer, with a full plate of food in front of me, “family, shelter, food,” as I always do.
It almost seems obscene to sit in a warm home, clothes on my back, too much food on our plates, and answer what I’m grateful for when there are so many out there who have none of this. Of course I’m grateful. Every damn day.
Sometimes I wish I could come up with a different answer. Something unique that I’m grateful for. Something different. Ot that we could skip the question altogether because everyone just gives the same answer again and again.
I want to be grateful that everyone has a home of some sort. I want to be grateful that everyone has a full plate. I want to be grateful that everyone can afford to go to the doctor when they’re sick. I want to be grateful that no one died from gun violence today. I want to be grateful that we are taking care of the environment for the future. I want to be grateful that everyone suffering has someone to turn to.
But I can’t be grateful for those things. It seems so small to be grateful for my own good fortune. I know how lucky I am.