Maggie looked sheepishly at the growing mound of paper towels just next to the space where she had been pouring wine. The busy-bee aunts hardly noticed her as they swarmed beneath the table, wiping and drying, buzzing and chattering.

“I'll say. Don't you think this is one of the mildest Thanksgivings we've had in years.”

“I don't know, Carol. Two years ago was so nice we had that hayride after dessert. With no jackets. Whoever heard of such a thing.”

Maggie spied the remaining clean napkins on the corner of the table. Stark white. Blank page.

She stealthily snatched them up and took them to the opposite corner of the kitchen, away from the bustle, to a small table which held the phone, some blank pads of scratch paper, and an assortment of writing utensils. She chose a black felt-tipped pen and pulled out a small, well-loved spiral notebook from her purse. She flipped through the pages until she found what she was looking for and began to write. More...