Thanksgiving

It’s dark. You walk to the garage. You start the car and aim it towards Iowa.

You roll through the Illinois fields newly covered in snow. You turn off the Interstate onto Highway 30. You cross the Mississippi River at Clinton. You love crossing the Mississippi.

Highway 30 turns into a two lane road. There is no snow in Iowa, just the brown remains of the corn fields fresh from harvesting, like the stubble on the face of an old man poorly shaved.

You drive through the small farm towns: Grand Mound, Clarence, Lisbon, and others whose names you don’t recall.

You eat a feast at your sister’s, the best meal you’ve eaten in a year, the last time you were there for Thanksgiving.

Later, back in Chicago, you think of your sister and just how much you love her and how it is so nice to have some place to go on Thanksgiving.