The Winds that Blow

Pin It The frivolous snow tumbles down from the darkened sky as the smells of fresh Tortellini Soup drifts about the house mixed with the aroma of freshly-baked rolls. Christmas lights twinkle from the tree in the living room while the strains of Alison Krauss drift lazily about the air—mixing into a potpourri of deliciousness.

I dipped the last few cake bites in the ambrosia chocolate; as I placed them on the waxed paper to cool, the front door opened. At first I thought it must have been of its own accord; not shut properly and hence blown open from the gusts of wintry wind. However, instead of a misguided storm as an assailant, three family members pushed through door, laden down with bags and blankets, with them came a few crystalline flakes which immediately began to melt upon touching down in the warmed interior.

I find that words now fail me with this overwhelming feeling of thankfulness—gratitude for siblings—for the love parents here and absent—for family.

The warm interior of the house now has yet another sense added into it—a new sensation to blend like marshmallows in velvety hot chocolate and wrapped in a cocoon of eiderdown.

This is Thanksgiving.