Thankful

It’s Sunday afternoon. A cool, sunny November day in Louisiana. Gaywynn, my wife, and I are here in our small house, which is in the country. It’s an old house, once moved, with a tin roof that needs replacing and a lot of other things that need repairing as well. Don’t get me started, as the comedian says. “It has character,” as my mother would say. Maybe too much.

I’m feeling a bit under the weather. Nothing too serious but just a bit blah. Gaywynn is cleaning her closet, something that she is happy doing. She’s got jazz playing on the radio. Right this moment, I hear, “Begin the Beguine.” I think it might be the Artie Shaw version. It makes me feel good.

I sit and read my book in the back room for a while, a thriller that entertains me greatly. I am in awe of the good thriller writers who can keep you riveted and turning the pages. Any writer would be. Or should be. What higher praise is there? “I couldn’t stop turning the pages.”

I put down the book and walk out to the kitchen. Gaywynn comes sailing in, carrying something. She smiles the biggest, most winning smile at me. It lifts my heart. It’s for me, a beautiful private gift given wholeheartedly, with love.

I don’t need anything more to be thankful for. This is all I need. This is enough.