The Aftermath

 Tanka Tuesday #254

The Whirligig # 346 - prompt words in red

Another Thanksgiving come and gone.  Thank God, the gods, goddesses, whomever I need to thank for my survival.  The tablecloth un-wrinkled and as pristine white as the snow soon to fall. The plates overflowing with the traditional storybook feast, my family’s menu for the past seven decades.  The turkey, the Parker House rolls, potatoes (white and orange), cranberry sauces (jellied and chunked) pies (pumpkin, pecan, and mince)… and the wine.  A toast or two for luck.  Then it began, right on schedule between the seventh toast and the mince pie. The annual boasting and bluffing contest between the uncles.  More like a pissing contest, if you ask me.  In the end, the tablecloth is a crime scene in cranberry and blood.  I have my own personal tradition; I bundle myself into my parka and duck out the back kitchen door before the yelling begins.

Thanksgiving dinner

all the usual dishes

right up to the end

the wine fueled finale   

heirloom tablecloth stained red

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