Thursday, November 22, 2007

On this day America considers set aside for thanks, I am rendered speechless, having uttered the words of gratitude each night instead of saving them up to spend over turkey.

Between when you celebrate the harvest and Macy's floats rolled through New York's streets my life has changed dramatically.

Last year I watched the mailbox, anticipating—hoping—for good news from that city.

This year I spoke to the agent I wanted from the beginning on the morning of Canadian Thanksgiving. Last week I had coffee with an agency sister, and this week, I set a meeting with my editor to discuss an outline for the book she asked me to write.

The third anniversary of my great-grandmother's death come and gone, and the story written three days after she passed has found its way into print. Words on a page that were never meant to be more than an ethereal embrace. Permission to smear mascara down my cheeks, fill tissues, and feel the depths of her loss.

Could I have imagined last year to see my name within the same table of contents as an author I have admired from chapter one of her debut novel? Or the friends that writing would bring into my life? The love and support of my family, who recognized a need for me to do what made me happy?

How can that much gratitude fit within a single day? Or even two?

No, it has to spread through all three hundred and sixty-five.

Thank you.

3 comments:

Rachel Vincent said...

Love this one, Chandra!

Jamie Ford said...

Beautiful.

C.Rooney said...

Thank you both.