In a house that smelled of cinnamon blush
and slow-roasted comfort humming from the oven’s glow,
the table stretched like a warm thought
waiting to be filled.
Plates clinked their tiny greetings,
forks lounged lazily on crisp napkin hills,
and chairs scooted forward as though eager
to hear every story about to tumble out.
Someone stirred gravy like a small cauldron of autumn,
someone else tried (and failed)
to sneak a crisp edge of stuffing,
and the youngest architect built
a mashed-potato mountain range
before the blessing even began.
The candles flickered in soft applause
as every bowl arrived like a guest of honor—
golden rolls puffed with pride,
cranberries sparkling like tiny garnet jokes,
and the pie cooling by the window
pretending not to know it was royalty.
Laughter rose like warm yeast,
expanding through the room,
lifting even the quiet hearts
who usually sat on the outskirts of conversation.
Stories overlapped in cheerful collisions,
memories braided themselves into new ones,
and elbows nudged playfully
over who got the last roasted carrot.
Someone gave a heartfelt toast
that didn’t quite rhyme,
and no one minded—
the sentiment fit perfectly anyway,
like a quilt stitched from mismatched scraps
all glowing the same in candlelight.
And when the evening finally exhaled,
the tablecloth rumpled with contentment,
the leftovers settled into sleepy contented heaps,
and the house whispered warm gratitude
from floorboard to rooftop.
For in that gathering—
full of crumbs, chatter,
soft smiles and second helpings—
there lived a gentle, glowing truth:
A feast is never just food.
It is the miracle of “all of us,”
together, present,
and perfectly imperfect—
like any good story,
like any good family,
like any good Thanksgiving.