Thankful

I smell the turkey as my father carves each slice delicately. Mymother’s homemade mashed potatoes steaming, the butter melting down ontomy dish, makes my mouth water.

We can’t touch our food until the turkey is on the dish and theThanksgiving prayer has been said.

My younger brother squirms in his seat waiting to shovel stuffing intohis mouth.

“Okay, the turkey is carved,” my father says and clasps his handstogether and begins the prayer.

It’s not the food I realize that makes me happy. It’s the facessurrounding me at this table that I’m thankful for.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher