It’s 7:04 Thanksgiving morning, and I’m sitting on my parents’ deck in my pjs, slippers, and coat, about to have a cup of blackcurrant tea. I haven’t had it before, but it has this deep cured fruit scent that I already love. The cold I can ignore for a nice moment like this, on a day we got up extra early–earlier than for work. There will be plenty more cooking to do, but the turkey’s in the oven.
There are many more animals here, more birds talking to each other than where we live, another 25 minutes closer to the city. They nestle in the tall lilac bushes, the pine tree my father painstakingly trained straight over many years, the old apple tree at the back of the yard. Beyond is a field and stream, home to many creatures. A family of ground hogs has live across the path under a tree as long as I can remember.
After a few weeks of business and stress, I’ve managed to carve out a few moments to sit and listen. The tea is as deep and fruity as it smells, and I hope there’s time to savor it slowly.