Every day's Thanksgiving

Every day's Thanksgiving

We never sat together
at the table, but
but we shared meals ...

warm fish chowder
delivered in a wide-mouth
mason jar.

He said it reminded him 
of Friday night fish suppers
and the chowder his
mother made when
he was a boy.

He marveled at the
dice-cut potatoes,
chunks of cod, and
the thin, soup-like
broth he slurped from
the bottom of the bowl.

He said after the
first spoonful he knew
the only thing missing
from the recipe
were his lips.

That made us laugh.

And then there was
Thanksgiving.

Year after year we
invited him in, but
year after year he
declined,

thanking us with
clasped hands
and a slight bow.

He wouldn't join us at
the table, but he welcomed
the overstuffed bag 
of Thanksgiving
we left under the hood
of the rusted-out grill
that stood in his front yard
next to the flagpole.

He was a Vietnam veteran
who greeted neighbors
with gusto.

Who, at the sight of you,
would fling his arm out
the driver's side window  
of his pickup truck to
deliver a broad wave.

Who'd yell, "Go home and
hug your baby."

Who every year, reminded
us to wear long sleeves and
bring a broomstick to push
back the thorny branches
and help ourselves to the
blackberries that grew
wild in his yard.

Who, the day after
Thanksgiving would
leave a message that
sounded more like
a love letter

for what he deemed
the silkiest mashed
potatoes he'd ever eaten,
turkey that had him
licking his fingers,
and pie so sweet
he could manage only
one or two bites
because he wanted more,

tomorrow.

Who would, no matter the
time of year, part ways by
turning his palms skyward
and say, "Every day's
Thanksgiving."

And we knew he was
right.

Yes, Irving, every day is
Thanksgiving.

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