Thanksgiving is the day that autumn finally throws its now-brittle, bare hands up in defeat.
The remaining ghosts of Halloween are pulled back into the Netherworld, as if they are guests who have overstayed their welcome.
Thanksgiving is the day the pumpkins get their final chance, if they managed to survive post-Halloween. They sit at their doorsteps, knowing their days are now really numbered, and they will be discarded, or left to rot, unnoticed.
Autumn remains for another month, but it is tired now. Tired of fighting, tired of screaming and barely being heard.
Thanksgiving is the day that autumn surrenders. The day that autumn whispers into the wind for one final time, "I'm still here."
Only a few of us hear it. And those few of us know that's it's not truly over yet.
But Thanksgiving is a day that feels like a death.
The death of autumn for another year.
There is a finality to it now, and we mourn.
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