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Thanksgiving in a Time of Virus Even the maples in the yard are scabrous with virus. Still, they stretch above our sight. Leaves hang tight to awkward branches. Fall. Twirl in the wind. It’s raining. The parade is on. No crowds. Just cameras. One year, before my brother was born, my dad took Sandy and I to his friend’s office, up high in the Empire State Building. We watched from above like demigods. Snoopy passed. A turkey. Pilgrims and half-naked Indians. They bounce on air, tethered to the earth by marchers holding heavy cable. A half -century later, I’m in the Hamptons. Mark’s at home. Dad’s alone in Vegas, mom in Elkhorn dulled by a failing mind. Sandy’s in Nebraska. Exposed. Has symptoms. A native group in traditional garb performs, as a jungle-themed float approaches. It looks so small. Kate asks Frankie what she’s thankful for. She says, “Mommy, daddy, and Hops,” their dog. She’s four. No one’s asked me what I’m grateful for. Ashtyn fusses and chatters. She’s just months old. We’ve broken protocol to see her. The wind kicks up. The rain grows thick and angry, as the branches bow in supplication.
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Hank Kalet 