With
My Grandson on Thanksgiving
by
Jeffrey Owen Pearson
He
says he is grateful for his father.
His
father is dead and he is grateful for him.
He
doesn’t talk about him
except
from those moments that seem to come from dreams.
I
remember him, too, every day. Some days I cry.
My
father used to measure everything,
but
I have no measure to reach him.
The
boy has no measure other than gratitude.
Some
places are pure. Pools so clear
we
will never understand. Our first meal.
The
last. Grateful for the bounty our hands planted in the earth
and
the earth gave back. A plate at the dark end of the table
for
the absent father. Father. The boy
is
grateful. Father. I am.
From
Jeffrey Owen Pearson: “ 'With
My Grandson on Thanksgiving' began in a circle of friends and family.
I was devastated by my grandson's gratitude for his father, it was
such a pure and ethereal sentiment. His dad's birthday is the last
day of November.”