October Theme—Thanksgiving/Gratitude

 

Other kids looked forward to the gifts and glittering lights of Christmas. But for Jake, it was Thanksgiving—the smell of pumpkin pie, the oven warming the house as the turkey roasted, his mother in her worn old apron. It was the one holiday she didn’t have to stress about. The old man always worked that day.

Now, strolling along Yonge Street beside Amy, he found himself reminiscing about those dinners from his childhood. The wind scattered trash and crisp brown leaves that crunched beneath their feet.

“Even in the city, the fall colours are amazing,” he said casually.

“We should take a walk in Riverdale Park. I’ve been there the past few days. You’d like it,” Amy urged.

Jake was distracted. He stopped outside a restaurant, breathing in deeply. “Mmm—do you smell that? Roast turkey.”

Amy smiled. “Come to the mission with me. It’s not home-cooked, but it’s good—and they don’t skimp on the gravy.”

Jake’s laughed. “I used to have Thanksgiving dinners that’d make you jealous,” he said softly. “Back before I left home.”

Amy glanced at him but didn’t press.

“Me and my old man, we never got along,” Jake went on. “He worked every Thanksgiving, which was probably why I liked it so much. Mom would cook all day, humming to herself. She looked happy then.”

They paused at a busy intersection, and Jake watched as leaves spiralled across the road on the don’t walk signal. “After I left, she’d meet me once a month at the same park bench. She’d bring fruit, muffins—sometimes pie if she could manage it. I’d share it with the guys.” The walk signal illuminated, and they continued on their way, heading nowhere in particular.

Amy whispered, “Ah, that’s sweet of her.”

“Yeah,” Jake said. “Last year she promised to meet me the week after Thanksgiving. I waited on the bench all afternoon. Then he showed up instead.”
Amy frowned. “Your father?”

He nodded. “Said she wasn’t allowed to see me anymore. As he walked away, I noticed my brother sitting in the car. Just staring straight ahead. Never even looked at me.”

Later that evening, the line outside the mission stretched down the block. The smell of roast turkey drifted onto the street. Once inside, Amy guided him toward the serving table, where volunteers spooned out turkey and stuffing. Jake took a plate, nodded his thanks, and scanned the crowded hall for two empty seat. Then he stopped.

At the far end of the room, hunched over his own tray, sat his brother. His hair was longer, streaked with grey, his hands shaking slightly as he cut into the meat. For a moment Jake thought he must be mistaken. But when his brother looked up, their eyes met. Neither acknowledged the other. 

Amy touched his arm. “You okay Jake? Something wrong?”

He exhaled slowly. “No, it’s nothing,” he said. “just… someone I used to know.”

They  carried their trays to the next table and sat down, joining in the laughter and chatter.

Jake ate slowly, savouring the turkey. When he looked up, his brother was gone. That was okay. Thanksgiving wasn’t about family anymore—it was gratitude for a warm meal shared with friends and strangers.