It’s Thanksgiving weekend and I am quite sick, which may be a good thing since this is the first time in twenty years that I’ve had to navigate this holiday entirely on my own. 

Historically this was always such a lovely weekend because, as a childless couple, my ex husband and I were serially adopted each year by friends with lovely and convivial dinner tables who opened their homes and hearts not only to us, but to a vibrant coterie of other friends. The feasts were always Lucullan, the conversation sparkled and the spirit of friendship shone more brightly than the candles that graced the holiday table. In an odd way, this became my Thanksgiving definition of “home.”

This year, my ex lives with his girlfriend and my usual hosts are out of province working in theatre and film. I am far too ill to leave my bed and my novel. I have no appetite, I look like hell and yet I am oddly content. It is just over a year from the official date of my separation, divorce papers have been filed and at long last a chapter of my life that lingers only as a very sad memory is coming to a close. Feeling punky notwithstanding, I am eager to go forward and excited by the possibilities that lie ahead. Being in bed with a stack of books is a luxury right now and not at all a bad place to be.

Tomorrow, in honour of the holiday, I will drag my sorry carcass out of bed to pick apples from the old tree under which, in another time, we were married - a tree whose production this year has been abundant and still hangs heavy on the bough. I will bring these apples to the animals in the field and sit with them in the sunshine to watch them savour their own Thanksgiving feast. 

It is a simple thing, but this year it will be enough.