I don’t smell turkey today; aromas of onion, garlic, and pumpkin are faint. I no longer see the 13 individuals, those I call my tribe. The wine glasses are washed and back in the cupboard; the linens have been gathered. The eight-year-old’s energy has skittered away; the driveway is void of cars. The bustle and excitement, the race to prepare, have waned. My heart is full and I’m smiling.

I hear them.

 

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