On Thanksgiving, I drove past one of the big cemeteries in town on my way home from the Turkey Trot. It was an extra cold day, even for November, and gray. Snow was falling, which it had been doing on and off all morning. My car window kept fogging up because I was still warm from the run and I was thinking about all of the cooking that lay ahead.
There was a car parked in the cemetery and a woman in a fur coat was standing in front of a grave, head low. And then I was past her on my way home.