Thankful

By Peter Bowden



 The boy sat on the edge of his narrow bed as the late afternoon sun slid through the thin curtains, turning dust into gold and silence into something soft enough to touch. He thought of the small things first, the way his mother’s voice sounded in the morning, low and steady as a warm kettle, the way his father’s boots left muddy moons on the kitchen floor after a long day’s work. He was thankful for the dog who slept at the foot of his bed, breathing slow and loyal, and for the cracked blue cup that always held his milk just right. These were not grand things, but they were steady, and steadiness felt like a quiet kind of grace.

He thought of the air beyond the screen door, cool and carrying the smell of cut grass and distant rain. He was thankful for the way the world still surprised him, the sudden wing of a bird lifting into the sky, the whisper of leaves brushing one another as if sharing secrets. He felt gratitude for the worn path to the creek where he skipped stones and imagined himself brave and larger than the day allowed. Even the cicadas, loud and relentless, seemed like a hymn meant just for summer afternoons and barefoot boys.

And then he thought of tomorrow, not with fear but with a soft unfolding hope. He was thankful for the chance to wake again, to feel the light on his face and the world calling him by name. Somewhere between boyhood and the wide unknown, he understood that gratitude was not a grand gesture but a simple knowing, that everything he loved, everything that held him gently in place, was enough to fill the quiet spaces of his heart.

Comments

Anonymous said…
Beautiful and thoughtful.
November 27, 2025 at 4:54 AM

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