November Banquet
by Sally Mills

I was as tall as my uncle’s knee, that,
I remember, so I must have been as tall as
my other uncle’s knee, and my father’s
as well. The menfolk. They went hunting. Early. So
early. Long before anyone else had risen. No
evidence of said hunt was
ever produced. Only the tired uncles and my
father, of course. So tired, they needed
a nap, although it was only
mid-morning.
The womenfolk, they were busy. They shuffled
plates, cloths. Bowls holding jewels: ruby cranberries,
emerald Jello dotted with
opal marshmallows, amber
sweet potatoes. And of course, a great platter holding
an enormous plucked and headless bird, but not the one
I had just seen walking past
Macy’s on TV. This one was stuffed and crisp,
aromatic. The children-folk—my sister, cousins, and I—
minuscule mortals from below—watched on
as these giants prepared
a feast fit for gods. We knew even then that
they were immortal.



 

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