Thanksgiving Treat

I slammed the door behind me, but nobody noticed. Even though it was Thanksgiving morning, I was fed up. More than the dreary TV programming, I fled the bickering of my brothers and sisters. On a holiday, you’d think it would be easier to get along and, even at age 11, I was sick of snide comments, petty temper outbursts and meanness for its own sake.

While my lungs inhaled the cold air, my spirit absorbed the quiet. Although I hadn’t made any plans, the small creek that ran through some undeveloped neighborhood land beckoned with an irresistible siren song, and its journey became mine. I knew every square inch of this waterway, our playground where we got muddy while engineering dams or looking for and finding small fossils.

Neither dog bark nor birdcall broke the stillness, and the quiet overwhelmed me as I stood on the bank. Water burbled under the ice, bare tree limbs rubbed against one another and each puff of breeze seemed like a gentle sigh. Even my tread was audible as I followed the watercourse. After about a hundred yards, I reached the boundary and turned for home.

I stepped into the same house I left, but it was different and I was astounded. My grandparents had arrived, and preparations reached a fevered pitch, but that wasn’t it. I was in the heart of my family and I belonged. They were mine and I was theirs. I was bound with love, both parental and sibling. Now, after my journey into solitude, I had the inner peace to recognize it.

Mom turned from a task in the kitchen and caught my eye. “Hi, Bill. Where’ve you been?”

I basked in the love that we all had for one another, a spiritual feast before dinner. “Nowhere.”

William R. Bartlett lives in Belton with his family.