First Thanksgiving, Massachusetts, 1621 Open-mouthed cod we caught swimming in the bay we salted for winter, turned sweet corn into corn meal, chided the children for greed, kept watch on our neighbors. It seemed easy enough to live that way the first summer when our bones still held the chill of winter’s bite, when we still remembered snow settling into bay waters
although hunger’s small ache and the meanness of never-quite-enough hung over us like mist that would not burn off. But as the days shortened and leaves turned gold, we tired of it. We began to question our restraint, to doubt if we could get through another winter without at least a memory of being full and soft bellied. Whispering began. The idea circulated like current—we would hold a feast—raid what we had stored. If the winter stores ran low wouldn’t God see us through? With faith, did we need thrift? We harvested and pulled from our hoards pumpkins, leeks, parsnips, chestnuts, peas. We cooked turkey, goose and venison, caught cod, split quahogs from their shells. Goose fat dripped into the fire and sent hickory smoke across the water. Wampanoags came to eat with us. Clothes unloosed, women danced for the men, until sun at the horizon burned the tree line red. Afterwards, we buried the bones. November gusts scattered the corn husks. Sated and unsure, we returned to our tasks.
20 | Sediments Literary-Arts Journal