Turn the Lights On

"Who does not thank for little will not thank for much."
-- Estonian proverb

The airports are packed, the lines in the grocery store weave like serpents up and down aisles, kitchens are in disarray with baking and preparing—

The family gathers, friends stop in, old recipes show up for their once a year appearance—

When I was fifteen I went into Manhattan with a friend and we ate Thanksgiving dinner at a cafeteria. (We both lived in the Bronx and our families didn't celebrate the holiday that year.) Like most everyone else we ordered a turkey plate—mashed potatoes, sliced turkey, a scoop of cranberry sauce, peas and onions, and a roll.

Many of the folks in the cafeteria looked as if they didn't have homes. The woman sitting across from us unwrapped a tea bag and let it sit in a cup of free hot water. She watched people eat and if they looked as if they were finished and something was left on the plate she went over to their table,

" You going to throw that away," she said. Someone had left turkey and someone else didn't like cranberry sauce. She wrapped a roll up in a napkin—perhaps for later. Between us we didn't have enough money for another meal, but we did have enough for a piece of pumpkin pie.

"Get a knife, " she said. "Be like a family all sitting down together." We sat down and she cut the pie into three pieces giving herself the smallest piece. Before we picked up forks she bowed her head, "Thanks,"she said, " for this Thanksgiving with friends."

The lights are for all those out there who need a light—a place to come home to—a good meal, a place of warmth, love.