I remember my favorite part of Thanksgivings past, walking out of the family gathering into the crisp, almost-winter air, shutting the door, the silence outside, emptying my body of the invasion of vibrating sounds.
Individualism is slowly filling my rooms. Or quietness. I'm not sure. My dream Thanksgiving is a fine meal with a small group of people, A hike in a National Park. A book of poetry. A glass of wine in front of a fireplace. A rocking chair.
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