A Toast

Warm sun on my face. A lazy breeze shuffles through the magnolia leaves, chilly reminder that even the lowcountry has winter. I watch a cat slink under the camellias, molten, merging into the shadows. Twittering birds erupt in a cloud of scolding. The cat stalks off, disgusted.

Laughter swells as someone backs out the door with arms laden. The storm door slams shut behind them, cutting off the cheerful din. Conversation drifts toward me on the breeze as some of the family stroll back from the nearby pond, where they'd been admiring the resident 'gator. Their voices mingle with the mouth-watering sounds and aromas of frying turkey. Children fly past on bikes and scooters. Somewhere, a dog barks. I stretch my legs out in the grass before me. Another car pulls up, bearing friends and family. The magnolia whispers overhead.

A child bumps my arm as I pour, spilling rich red wine over the rim. Sunlight shimmers in beads of deepest ruby clinging, sliding, as I quietly lift my glass in homage to this day. Thanksgiving, indeed.