Berta's Thanksgiving Table, Peace. The Pigtail Monster's Family
Thanksgiving at Berta’s Table
(One short story, for the ones who finally get to rest)
The table is too long for the kitchen, so it spills into the hallway and out the back door, planks borrowed from every grandmother who ever lived here.
Candles flicker in old jelly jars. The turkey is golden, the potatoes are real, the cranberry sauce still has the shape of the can because nobody has energy for pretense tonight.
They come as they are.
Berta at the head, apron scorched, eyes soft for the first time in years.
Therese beside her, tiny and barefoot, rose crown wilted but still smiling.
Lilith at the foot, scarlet nails drumming once on the wood before she reaches for the wine and pours for everyone, no exceptions.
Rita, forehead scar shining in the candlelight, passes the gravy without being asked.
Mary (both of them, one mantle blue, one scarlet) sit side by side, arguing quietly about whose turn it is to carve.
Asha and Lior slip in late, wind-burned and taller than last year, owl feathers tangled in their braids.
Kelly the cat claims the only empty chair, tail curled like a question mark nobody needs to answer.
The owls perch on the chandelier.
The pigeons line the windowsill, cooing low.
The gnomes stand on the sideboard, beards dusted with flour, guarding the pie.
Nobody speaks for a long time.
Then Berta lifts her glass (just water, she’s too tired for wine) and says the only prayer any of them need tonight:
“We made it through another year.
Some of us didn’t.
All of us tried.
The children are sleeping safer because we didn’t look away.
That’s enough.”
Glasses rise.
Even the pigeons lift one wing.
Therese giggles and drops a petal into her mashed potatoes.
Lilith snorts, but her eyes are wet.
Rita squeezes Mary Magdalene’s hand under the table like sisters who finally found each other after centuries apart.
Outside, the roses refuse to die even though it’s November.
Inside, the warriors eat until their bellies remember what full feels like.
There is no speech about gratitude.
There doesn’t need to be.
They already paid for this meal in advance, every spoonful bought with a night they didn’t sleep, a child they carried out of the dark, a name they refused to let the river take.
So they just eat.
They laugh at dumb jokes.
They let the candles burn down crooked.
And when the pie is gone and the dishes are stacked like tomorrow can wait, Berta leans back, closes her eyes, and whispers to the quiet room:
“Shift’s over, loves.
Go home and live a little.”
The owls blink once.
The pigeons fly off into the cold, satisfied.
Kelly the cat purrs so loud the windows rattle.
And for one night, the table holds the whole tired, triumphant army,
scarred, strange, and finally, finally
at peace.
Happy Thanksgiving, warriors.
You earned every bite.
_____
The Pigtail Monster
A story working towards peaceful completion
Each chapter a story of it's own and together a fighting chance at making the statement Our Children Are Not For Sale, a lasting truth. Mama, we did it- we took your story and pulled from it our ancestors, my steps and took if from scary monsters to healing children. I Love Piggy now. We Did it!
This is for anyone who gets it. Even the adults out there with a child within still crying-
From my little girl imagination to yours... where everyone is a hero
And, most importantly children win - they feel the love.
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
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