“But you’re happy, right?” my step-brother asks, raising his voice above the clatter of diners in the restaurant.
“Of course I’m happy.” A devillish grin creeps over my face. “You know, except for those nights that I cry myself to sleep.”
He raises an eyebrow.
“That’s just a joke. I don’t do that anymore.” I laugh and wink. “Only on Friday nights.”
And so, I give thanks.*
Thankful that there are as many paths through life as there are people. Thankful for choice and courage and unexpected love and deep passion and strength of character.
Thankful that our troubles truly do not amount to a hill of beans. Thankful that I won the life lottery and that I am no man’s chattel.
Thankful for books and words and the people who write them, who bleed them, who love the craft and the pleasure and open their hearts and minds every day to the fans and critics alike. Thankful for those who have indulged and encouraged my ramblings, and for those who inspire me with their talent.
Thankful for feelings bubbling up through the melting ice, for freedom and loneliness, desire and disappointment, joy and anger, sadness, frustration. Thankful for the darkness that makes the light so much more illuminating. The bitterness that enhances the sweet.
Thankful for being shown what love is, and what it is not. Old friends, new friends. Lost friends. Lessons learned. Forgotten, and relearned. Promises kept and promises broken.
All are part of the whole, and I am thankful.
* This being Thanksgiving weekend in Canada, of course. Blame it on the Metric system.