Thanksgiving morning

Snow's on the ground and the plows rumble by in the dead of the night. Under blankets, we're warm. We cover our eyes against the coming of light and the start of this day, this day of our feast, and the pretense of joy amid their unabashed bliss, the daughters who'll sing and play with the boy as if he was theirs, a jewel to be won, and a jewell to be worn. Soon their voices will drum against my solitude, and then I'll be torn from this bed and this home. Why measure despair with family and friends? Why measure at all? Because reader dearest, all means have their ends.