Adelaide B. Shaw

Thanksgiving

Home from Sunday Mass where I received Communion. Climbing the back stairs to our flat, the fragrance hits me. Fried onions. Dad is at the stove making the pasta sauce for dinner. He takes a meatball, flattens it and cooks it along with the onions. I slice open one of the warm rolls I bought at the bakery near church and spread on some butter. It melts into a glistening pool. Dad tops this with onions and a smashed meatball. A little salt, lots of pepper and the top half of the roll

full of Grace
thanksgiving
in each bite