Tombstones

Opening the refrigerator isn't supposed to be this disheartening. The breeze shrinks my skin onto my bones, and the cold air is chilling as I peer into the graveyard of my Thanksgiving leftovers.

And this happens every year in early December.

Fresh from four days of splendid food, wonderful sales, and priceless family time, we are hungover, slogging through early December, out of earshot of Christmas's sweet tune.

With the interminable four weeks still before us, we are forced to eat the once-divine Thanksgiving leftovers. We cautiously smell the turkey before we eat it. We drain the stagnant water from the tupperwared yams. The pumpkin pie crust is flaccid and soggy.

We look on the rows of containers in our fridges, monuments to a wonderful holiday now gone. We were humbled by the joy of Thanksgiving, only now to eat tasteless food at its wake. Tombstones of leftovers remind us that even the happiest holiday times come to an end.