by Judith C Evans

Created on: November 07, 2009   Last Updated: December 01, 2009

Wednesday AM

We stalk the produce aisle, my mother and I,

In search of the revered magenta berries

Which are stacked in staid plastic packages.

Thursday AM

The freshly-washed berries glisten at Nana's house

In the 1950's-era colander, as we measure sugar

And choose the perfect saucepan.

The flame heats the sour bursting beads;

Tart, bubbling flavor

Fills the pan and escapes with the steam

To enchant our noses and tickle our appetites.

Thursday noon

My mother has placed thin orange slices

On the shimmering surface of our cooling cranberry sauce

Which now rests in Nana's blue and white bowl.

At two o'clock we shall bow our heads in Thanksgiving,

And our cranberry sauce, with its orange slices placed just so,

Will sparkle like stained glass

As November's hallowed afternoon sunlight

Streams through the kitchen window.

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