My son, Bo, and I stood in a field yesterday, watching Canada geese take off into the mist. They disappeared almost instantly: ghost geese, still making a racket, but invisible to the two of us parked on the ground, our feet nestled between briars and dead wildflowers.
“Where do they think they’re going, Mom?”
He smirked. “After up, I mean.”
“They’re flying south for the winter. Pretty good idea, actually.”
“But tomorrow’s Thanksgiving. They’re gonna miss it. That’s not a good idea. And then they’ll miss Christmas!”
I gazed up into the cloud that now held only quiet honking, growing more and more distant. “They won’t miss Christmas, they just won’t spend it with us in the snow. They’ll hang by a pool, drinking Mai-Tais.”
The ghost geese gone, we picked up the pace, trying to keep warm. “Not very seasonal,” muttered Bo.
“Geese aren’t very seasonal, that’s the whole idea.”
We trudged along, visions of flying and snow and swimming pools dancing in our heads. “Don’t they get tired?”
“Yeah. But goose muscles are made for this kinda stuff. They were born to use themselves up in order to get to where they’re going.”
He sighed, a high-pitched little boy sigh. “Hope they’re happy up there.”
This Thanksgiving, like all Thanksgivings, I’m grateful for the Strange Angel supporters and listeners who, together, have made possible our funny-looking, intense and I would say necessary little planet of music. Thank you for helping us do what we were born to do, for allowing us to work our muscles and use ourselves up in order to get to where we’re going.