I thought I’d spend Thanksgiving alone.
New job. New state. A thousand miles from anything familiar.
Didn’t expect to find home in a cypress swamp.
George L. Smith State Park.
Tupelo and cypress trees rising from black water.
Spanish moss swaying like old ghosts.
We fished. We paddled. We wandered through reflected worlds, where sky and water blurred into something holy.
I brought my camera, but barely needed it. The place knew how to pose. Still water. Still air. Light catching on bark, on moss, on quiet.
But what’s not in these photos is the unexpected welcome.
Old friends who opened their home, their holiday, their lives.
I showed up with a spinning rod and a six-pack, left feeling like kin.
Laughter in the kitchen. A few too many glasses of wine. Warm plates and warmer people.
It wasn’t the Thanksgiving I imagined.
It was better.
And I drove away the next morning with a full heart—and a bucket of pomegranates and pecans.
