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Thanksgiving in Canarsie was wonderful. It was the night before Thanksgiving a dozen years ago when Ronna and I had our first date (Chloe in the Afternoon at the Midwood Theatre and then to the Foursome Diner for a bite; Ronna had the sniffles and wore a blue turtleneck). Who would have imagined we’d still be this close?

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Three words: Deep-frying turkey. It’s a good thing we decided to do it in the driveway, instead of in the garage.

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The beauty in the nature around you, even if it’s just the way the light filters in through the trees.

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When you were alive, we would gather in your house every Thanksgiving — but it felt like our house. Like it belonged to everyone.

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You’re supposed to be everything your mental illness has ripped from you all other days of the year. 

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The fact that hot beverages exist, which you can pour into your favorite mug, is a miracle.

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It is nothing short of insane that the Puritans are celebrated through Thanksgiving. They killed other people who did not believe like they did. One of them was Mary Dyer.

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Let’s be grateful for today because we’ve worked hard to get where we are, we are goddamn warriors.

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Gratitude for that nagging pain in my leg, gratitude for that troublesome client, gratitude for that delayed flight, gratitude for that damage from the storm. Because it’s making me take things slow, because it’s helping me develop better boundaries, because some flights are going to be delayed and I’m glad it wasn’t a more important flight, because the damage could have been worse, because the damage exposed a more serious problem that now we’re solving. And on and on.

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Eye contact.