Linsey Woolsey

Journal ·

Thanksgiving, and the walk after

What to wear to the table, and out to the woodpile after.

A man, his face out of frame, in a camel cable-knit sweater with a blue shirt collar at the neck, charcoal pleated trousers, brown leather Chelsea boots and a watch on a black strap, holding an armful of split wood. He stands on grass strewn with fallen leaves beside a stacked woodpile and a white clapboard house, with a bare tree and an open field behind.
AI-generated. We'd rather spend a photographer's fee on firewood. The real pieces may look different.

Late November. A Thursday. Coats on the bed in the back room. The kitchen too hot by noon.

An oxford, blue, the collar out over a cable crew-neck. The sweater off when the oven door opens. Over a chair. Back on at the gate.

Pleated trousers, charcoal. Room at the waist for the second plate. Nothing pale near the gravy.

A plain watch. Off at the sink, in a saucer, for the dishes.

No suit, unless the house asks for one. An uncle in his good shirt. The neighbour from down the road, in from the cold with a pie dish.

Then the walk. Before the pie, or after the dishes. Whoever’s dog. The field still wet. Leaves in the ditch.

Boots, not trainers. Leather, worn in. The nearest coat off the bed.

At the back door, someone hands you the wood. An armful for the stove. Bark on the sweater.

Dark by five.

The whole look, piece by piece.

A few gifts, for later.