It’s the night before Thanksgiving and I’m sitting in a corner in Starbucks, listening and thinking.

And, hopefully, writing for the first time this week.

– — –

I’ve just sat here trying to write for almost 40 minutes.  And all I’ve got is what you see above.

It’s not working.

– — –

Here is what I know tonight.

Betcha they’ll be a Thanksgiving Eve where I’m up late in the kitchen, mixing and baking and planning for the ones that’ll sit around my table the next day.  Betcha I’ll have flour in my hair and crumbs on the counter.  Betcha I’ll hear my baby crying from his crib down the hall, my husband watching football in the living room.  Betcha I’ll be wondering if I bought enough rolls, if my centerpiece is perfectly centered on the table.  Betcha I’ll be calling my mother-in-law to ask her how to make the sweet potatoes.

That night isn’t tonight.  It’s not time for that yet.  Tonight my kitchen will be dark, tonight my hallway will be quiet.  Tonight I’ll be taking a bath and reading a book and being Amy Beth.  Not wife, not mother.  Amy Beth at 25, Amy Beth before family, Amy Beth alone.

And when that other Thanksgiving Eve comes, when I’m standing in that kitchen one night, when I hear the baby crying down the hall, I can promise you one thing.

Betcha I’ll think about tonight in Starbucks and smile.