Still every year I cook a turkey, and am grateful for whoever is here to share it with us. This year it will be Devin and a friend of hers who has come a previous year. And the cats, of course. Foul-loving beasts.
Jim is not grateful to me at the moment, because he was having a shower when I turned on the kitchen tap and you can't do that in our house without the showerer suffering somewhat.
The sun has broken through the clouds for a moment. Atia is in the window reading the news. It's bright in here.
I am reading the news, too, online, and feeling a second day of sorrow and horror about the events in Mumbai. Trying not to worry about the missing. In her poem, "The Visitor" Carolyn Forche writes, "There is nothing one man will not do to another." I have always tried not to believe this; I do not want to believe this. But of course it is true, and reminders like this make me feel scalded. It's only true, I know. I know that. But I don't want to.