Amy Randall-McSorley

Amy Randall-McSorley

The dark and peaceful night. The three sweet dogs who slumber nearby. Gary softly dreaming by my side. The comfort of the furnace warming our cozy little home. The wind chimes serenading us from the front porch. The only other sound is the beating of my heart.

My heart. The keeper of my life. I love it in a way today I never knew I would. For there is nothing more powerful than having that which you never questioned to be — to stop being, to stop beating. The rhythm of life not to be denied, I survived for another day.

Soft days, hard days, days that swept by too quickly, and others too slowly — all have passed since the day I nearly joined those who have left me too soon.

And here we are at the time of Thanksgiving. And I think, isn’t every day?

Thankful for being warm, for having loved and having been loved, for the taste of spring rain on my tongue, the feel of the hot summer sun on my face, the vision of autumn leaves dancing in the air, and the absence of sound when winter brings with it the crisp silence of snow. The gratefulness I once thought I knew is a stranger to me now, replaced by a thankfulness I had never fathomed before.

It’s in the peacefulness of our little home when I sip my coffee. It’s the silent dark as I pull out the drive for the morning commute. It’s the quiet thoughts that will not be denied, despite the frenzy of deadlines and projects during the day. It settles in the back of my mind. I’m covered in its soft warmth like a down blanket on a cold winter’s night.

It’s in the light streaming from the living room window when I make it home at the end of a long day. It’s in Gary’s warm embrace when I walk through the door and the soft kisses and wagging tales of our dogs Moses, Jasmine and Harry. And it is in the awareness that those now ethereal have never really left, for their love and memories still linger.

Wishing you and yours, Dear Readers, that you too are where the Thanksgivings are, not only for this holiday, but for always.

Written and submitted by Amy Randall-McSorley for The Circleville Herald. The views of this column may not necessarily reflect that of the newspaper.

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