First Thanksgiving

The turkey is in the oven, and I breathe in the flavor. The table is set, and the apple pie is cooling on the counter; the sweet smell makes me want to eat a piece before the family arrives.

This is the first Thanksgiving I’ve hosted since Brad’s passing, and this had been his favorite holiday. He’d always sneak a taste of the raisin stuffing I’d make special for him before anyone would arrive.

I’m sitting with my feet up sipping white wine, savoring the flavor when the doorbell rings.

I take a deep breath and head to the door.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Later Life

Given the choice, I would want to be the sort of shrewd, goatish old man it’s said Rodin was, strolling the broad boulevards and ornate arcades of Paris after a productive morning in the studio, a young Russian-born French lady leaning lightly on his arm, and if her eyes were too wide apart for her to be considered a classic beauty, or if she didn’t actually read any of the books he recommended, he wouldn’t care, because it had just turned fall, and the air was like a crisp white wine, and they always felt at least a little drunk.From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie co-edits the journals Unbroken and UnLost.