Thanksgiving Day.

Thursday this time around brings us a more familiar Carolina early winter: sixty degrees already in the sun, and expected to hold there or nearabouts until it starts getting dark again, which by my calculations should be about 2:30. This daylight thing is starting to press at me. But let's us not lament today: Somehow we've landed our happy household in an odd and unlikely space of blissfully empty quiet, nowhere to go and nowhere to be, a tiny meal for two out there on the evening horizon: turkey and fake turkey, pole beans, white potatoes, stuffing, rolls, cranberries. Only the second high holiday I've had to myself, and our first alone together. Not sure when or if we'll see the likes of this again. Plenty to be thankful for, but that it's 11 in the morning and I'm in my own house and still in my robe may well top the list.

A sign of the universe's faith in this operation: yesterday, in the store, a ten-pound turkey on offer for exactly and precisely the likes of me. Late in the holiday game for me to be so fortunate. It's a brand name, and not an organic, but I'll happily roast my Lil' whatever they're calling it later on today. Our plan is to make some species of list, hang it on the fridge, check things off as we go. Glass of wine? Check. Fake turkey roast in the oven? Double check.

What now? Football on TV. Leaf raking. Dog walk. Abundant sunshine, say the weather fancies. Not on the docket: Seeing very many other people, related to me or otherwise. There's a half-note of sadness in that, sure, but there's an equal and opposite song of the rest of today. Happy Thanksgiving, friends and fans of weather. Easy enough to miss the old way, but easy enough to know some version of that's on the schedule for many years to come. So we'll just see how this way feels, too. We shall just quietly see.