A Mourner's Thanksgiving

It’s the day when gravity exerts

its strongest pull on gratitude.

My friends are worried about bees and koalas;

about carbon footprints; about all the lies being told;

all the heartless greed that’s eating up the world.

They are fearful of finales; disturbed by disappearances;

and all the while the ghosts of melting glaciers

haunt their dreams.



What shall we remember?

What is there to be thankful for?

Can we even say that we are grateful for death;

that we are indebted to loss?

There is a sure reckoning of the heart

that knows what we owe

for all the things that do not last—

A deep and undeniable understanding

that regret is counterfeit currency, and will not do.

No, we’ll be paying with imperfect tokens

poured like tears from an ancient mold:

coins of our own realm; struck with our own merciful hammer,

and faced with the patient image of ourselves.



There must always be some ceremony of tribute;

some liturgy of loss that shows us how not to despair.

So, let’s raise our glasses now —

In gratitude for all the things that never last.