A cold wind blew across the Woods. The leaves have mostly yielded to the autumn rains. They are diverse colors on the good Earth. The sky was a brilliant blue with white clouds peeking out from the bare limbs as they reached toward heaven. The clouds said, ‘Wait and see what is coming next.

The Old Man watched from his Woods Walk. Tomorrow would be a good day. Good days are valued. We write about the good days. Days when our hope and heart are in sync. Days of promise and plan. Days the Bard wrote plays about. The Sun is in the sky, and the Earth is firm under our feet. Days of vision and certainty. We know where we are going and how to get there. We are like the Blues Brothers on a mission from God.

Other days are uncertain. The blue sky is covered with a thick blackness. The compass does not function. We were in our Salad Days; now there is wilted spinach. We feel fortunate if we lose a little. Sometimes we lose a lot. We rode the Carousel of Life and pulled the brass ring off with zeal and gusto. Now we can’t reach the ring and focus on hanging on the grinning horse’s neck.

Thanksgiving is here. We are here. Let us celebrate. No more separation of people. We travel the same path home. We all love our children. Their success is our second life, another brass ring in the Golden Years. When they smile, we laugh just as we did when we first met them.

So there are unbreakable bonds. We instincivily feel this permanence. Faces change around the Thanksgiving Table, but the love remains. Tomorrow, look closely at the empty chair and see your loved one never left.