Thanksgiving, Differently

The story does not always end well,
and the picture, if you look closely,
is not the All American story,

more Bruegel than Rockwell,
a mix of secrets and anger and sadness
in a tragic dance of pain and lies.

Despite it all,
despite the madness and blindness
and tragic fury,

I still believe
in happy ever after. Truly.
Only I know it takes the oddest path,

detours through hell,
vacations in purgatory,
until you are left gasping, breathless

as the ride stops
in a heaven so different than any you imagined,
that you are unsure whether you should dance, or flee.

About this poem. 

“So,” said the clerk at the hotel. “How was your Thanksgiving evening?”

“That,” I said, “is a long story.”

“No really,” the clerk, a nice young man with bright eyes asked again. “How was it?”

“Seriously,” I said. “That’s not a question you want an answer to.”

“I really would.” the polite young man persisted.

I told him. His jaw dropped. He was at a loss for words.. I smiled. “Told you.” I said. “But never mind. I am thankful for an entire slate of things I didn’t think I would be thankful for this morning. Including this hotel room.”

He stared as me as I and my kids walked to the elevator. I am sure he didn’t know whether to believe me or not. But it was the truth. Unlike this poem, which is only a half truth. As most poems are.

Tom