Such an ironic holiday. A time for people to put on airs and pretend they had so much for which to be thankful. She could almost remember the days of her childhood—when she had a family with whom to celebrate. They acted so grateful. Grateful to a God who blessed them so richly. “What are you thankful for, Sarah?” her mom would ask. Followed by expressions of family, food, housing, peace, oh and one couldn't forget health.
The Lord gives and the Lord takes away, someone had said at the funeral. She wasn't really sure she owed such a God her thankfulness. She supposed she could be thankful she still had food and a house. Though they primarily served to sustain a hopeless, no meaningless, life. Even the house from those happy Thanksgivings she had sold a year earlier when she moved away from St. Louis to the small town of Arrow Springs, where at least she didn't have to be thankful for everyone’s better-you-than-me sympathies.
She tucked her feet under her as she settled on the couch with her Thanksgiving-turkey-TV-dinner. She glanced at the end table where her glass of Pinot sat next to the at-the-ready box of tissues. Yep, she was prepared for a Hallmark Thanksgiving special, which would remind her of just how little she had for which to be thankful.
Perhaps, she would find some meaning in her new career. Mayor Johanus had agreed to give her a job at the library at the request of her neighbor Mrs. Freeman. Sarah liked children. She needed something to keep her from the suicidal path she flirted with in the early days. She suspected the reality of the attempt would be more like the mush on her TV tray trying to replace the feasts of old.