Thanksgiving Day dawns an inevitable brisk, cold morning; a day clinging to the last of autumn, on the threshold of winter. There are still a few, last, golden leaves hanging onto the bony fingers of the trees, glimmering in the waning light. But most of them, like fading postcards of the year, lie scattered on the lawns or raked into crinkled piles along the curbs of the streets. The wind rattling the frost etched windowpanes speaks of the coming winter and its long, dark nights and snow. The poignant passing of time seems to hang in the air.

The aroma of a roasting turkey fills the house. My mother has been working on this dinner since breakfast, in her apron, as she done on all the Thanksgivings from my childhood through my life, as far back as I can remember. Hers is the legacy of those countless golden birds on their platters; the light and the dark meat carved up alongside the drumsticks and wings, the gravy, the raisin and bread crumb stuffing, the bowls of creamed white onions, bean cassarole and mashed potatoes that we gathered around year after year. Those pumpkin pies, those apple pies and their rich, flaky crusts, the spicy sweetness of Cortland and Macintosh apples that went into them. It was something we waited all year for. Oh how we took those marvelous delicious dinners for granted. Days of work spent shopping in those crowded stores, waiting on those check out lines. The peeling and slicing of all those hundreds of apples over all those years, the rolling out of the dough across flour sprinkled boards, the hours of mixing and pounding and slicing and stirring in that old kitchen. All for a dinner that disappeared in fifteen minutes.

Yet after all these years we know there was something about those big, old dinners. The table crowded with chairs, the happy harmony of excited voices, the hands reaching for the butter dish and the salt and pepper shakers and the cider jug. In the background would be the parade; the Broadway scenes played out in front of Macy's on Herald Square: the Phantom of the Opera, Cats, Les Miserable and Annie. The magnifiscent floats, the singers, and of course those giant balloons swaying in the breeze between the skyscrapers. Snoopy and Charlie Brown trying to kick that old football. Ronald McDonald and Spiderman, Rocky the flying squirrel, Virginia with her letter and the Elf on the shelf. And at last, Santa Claus, in his magical sleigh, proclaiming to everyone that the Holidays had finally arrived.

Afterward would be the game of Monopoly, the smell of coffee. Outside the pale window, the daylight would fade quickly and down the block one would see the warm, scarlet glow of a sunset between the empty branches of the trees that lined the street. Purple clouds racing in that brisk wind.

In the contented air of our cozy dining room, my mother and my aunt would talk of long ago Thanksgivings with my grandmother and my uncles in their little flat in Ridgewood, Queens. My cousin would tell us of his ever expanding model railroad, the new coal mine he was putting in its hills. We would tell each other of the toys we hoped to get for Christmas; the Major Matt Mason spaceship and mooncrawler, the Hot Wheels racing kits, the Barbie doll houses. My father and my uncle would be arguing over jazz and classical music.

It seems now, in a time and a place far away from there, that this was the moment we were really thankful for.