Thanksgiving Air

. for public domain Where talking descends into mere decoration, like ornate glass reflecting pretty wallpaper, I yearn to walk through an arid desert a mute and savor the pure and honest silence ringing. Where gestures are bound by the polite customs taught in finishing schools of refined behavior, I stand there statuesque to avoid offending practitioners of the craft of fine movement. I lurk off in a corner beyond all the chatter, not knowing my words, or in what ways words matter. I become the mark of amused titter-tatter, not knowing my hands, or in what ways hands matter. I offer the best excuses I can gather, slink off onto the patio and into the wood, draw a deep breath of the fresh mossy, musty air, a roguish and languid unchained solitaire. Here I am my familiar self, rough as oak bark, a soul soiled with our most original sin, with no desire for baptism or the Lord's blessing, with no desire to know myself more than I am. "Come back to the party. We all want you there." My mother gently chides me, combs back my hair. "Your cousins, your uncles, your aunties are there." I shrug and I smile at her, "I just needed some air."