THANKSGIVING. Where does it begin? Indeed, where does it end?

Nightly I complain that my sleep is broken. Our youngest children are afraid to sleep alone. My husband fidgets in bed. My faithful old yellow Lab has stomach issues. Morning seems to come too soon. I give thanks for the new day.

Each morning I shower and notice the stretch marks that cross my stomach. Nine years ago my teenage twin daughter died. A life short but complete. The pain has been horrendous. I give thanks for the sixteen years we shared.

It’s 8:10 Monday morning. My two youngest girls are bickering in the back seat as we drive to school. The argument makes no sense. I focus on the road and remain silent. I give thanks for the static. My children who live are healthy.

My grocery cart loaded, I wait at the checkout stand. The young woman in front of me counts her change as her two children look on. There isn’t extra to pay for their basics. I reach into my purse. I give thanks that I have enough for me and enough to share.

The next week at the grocery store, I watch an old Asian woman in front of me search her purse. The lady behind the counter waits. The lady behind me stares. School has ended. My children need a ride to their activities. The old woman turns to me, confused. Ten minutes have passed. I smile and reach into my wallet. She reminds me of an old widowed neighbor without family who befriended me when I first moved to our island. I’d been divorced, alone with three children. I haven’t seen that neighbor in months. I promise to visit her. I give thanks for the day’s pause.

I complain about our government and time and money wasted jabbing about policy. Nobody ever seems to agree on anything. It’s like an attic in an old house that needs a thorough cleaning. I give thanks that I live in America and that the freedom of speech is mine.

It’s almost midnight and our house is a mess. The kitchen is loaded with dishes. My treasured carpet has a red wine stain. The party is over. I give thanks for all my friendships.

My jeans aren’t as comfortable as they usually are. I check my belt to see if it’s cinched an extra notch. My white T-shirt clings to my mid-section outlining my love-handles. I give thanks for the plentiful good food that fills my belly.

As I race for the ferryboat in Seattle the old Native American standing at the corner of First Avenue holds up his sign as if he is a crossing guard. The sign reads, “SMILE.”  Our eyes connect. I smile back as I look for his bucket for handouts. Circumstances have led to our differences. In God’s eye we are all the same. I give thanks for my faith.

Alzheimer’s overtakes my grandfather’s last few years. I don’t understand why death has to be so cruel. I remember all the Sunday night Chinese take-out dinners, the wood fires, road trips to Harrison Hot Springs, jaunts to the trout farm, afternoon naps in the basement…I give thanks for my family.

Thanksgiving day, six years ago, my grandmother died, her mind intact as her organs slowly shut down. Her oldest grandchild held her hand as she passed from this world to the next. As the coroner removed her body from her apartment, I put the turkey in the oven. Later that afternoon we gathered as a family, giving thanks while celebrating life.

Thanksgiving. Where does it begin? Indeed, where does it end?