First Thanksgiving

The thought of being thankful fills my heart with dread.
They'll all be feigning gladness, not a word about her said.
These heavy shrouds of blackness enveloping my soul,
Pervasive, throat-catching, writhe in me, and coil.
I must, I must acknowledge, just express her name,
So all sitting at the table, know I'm thankful that she came.
Though she's gone from us forever and we mourn to see her face,
Not one minute of her living, would her death ever replace.
So I stop the cheerful gathering, though my voice quivers, quakes,
Make a toast to all her living. That small tribute's all it takes.