We’ve shoved most of the furniture back in place, washed the kitchen floor, sorted the silverware and dispatched it back to the dining room. The china has been stacked and returned to the cupboard. Tablecloths churn in the washer.
It takes three days of prep and one morning of clean up for a meal that lasts an hour—with a bonus of time before and after with family. If anyone asks, yes, our small house can accommodate 30 for a sit down Thanksgiving, but the day after means big time recovery mode. After a turkey sandwich with stuffing and cranberry for lunch, I have discovered the couch. Exhaustion shrouds like a dull fog. The cat has settled herself purring on my shins. Rain buckets down and outside, pine trees droop with needles that hang like just washed hair. Droplets merge and blend on the window panes, creating clear Rorschach’s patterns I’m too tired to interpret. Water ricochets off the gutter to drum on the firewood stacked below.
The house is almost back in order; for the moment there is no need to move, so I’m thinking, for the rest of this day, I won’t.