The Day After Thanksgiving

7:12 a.m.

The refrigerator door swings open onto a crowded shelf. A hand reaches past the cranberry sauce and lifts out the turkey carcass. The coffee pot is done, and steam curls off the top of the mug. The microwave hums behind a plate of stuffing. A drumstick is pulled from the carcass and eaten over the sink, drips on the porcelain.

At the kitchen table, someone presses a spoon into a bowl of cold mashed potatoes. The gravy boat sits beside it, its spout crusted with brown. A glass of orange juice stands at the edge of the table, beaded with water. The plastic wrapper on the pecan pie is folded back halfway, and a knife lies across the top of the tin, its handle sticky.

A second person reaches into the refrigerator for the leftover cranberry relish. The shelf is full of foil-wrapped plates. The relish has set into a red jelly. Someone scoops a spoonful onto a small plate and eats it standing in the light of the open door.

9:30 a.m.

The sidewalk is damp, and the houses are quiet. Two people in running shoes pass, talking in low voices. A plastic grocery bag tumbles along the curb and catches on a fire hydrant. The street slopes down to a creek; the water moves grey and fast. Someone stands at the end of a driveway with a rake, waiting. The sun appears for a moment, then goes behind the clouds. The rake blade scrapes a line of wet leaves. A car idles in a driveway, exhaust curling in the cold air. The trees are nearly bare; a few yellow leaves hang on the branch of a maple. The lawns are wet about the edges, where the sprinklers reached. A dog barks once from a fenced yard, then stops. On one porch, a plastic skeleton still leans in a lawn chair, left from Halloween. A delivery van turns the corner, its driver holding a cardboard box of shipping tape.

11:15 a.m.

The tree lot is in a parking lot behind a drugstore. A man in a quilted vest stands among rows of pine and fir. Another drags a tree across the gravel, the butt end leaving a scratch. A pickup pulls up, and the tailgate drops. The tree is lifted, wrapped in twine, tied to the roof with a nylon rope.

The lot attendant stamps his feet on the pavement. A small puddle of water and pine needles spreads under the rack where the trees lean. A boy walks between the rows, touching the branches, sniffing his hand. The smell of cut evergreen hangs in the cold air. The attendant takes a folded bill from the man at the pickup, puts it in his chest pocket. The boy carries a small fir to the tailgate, holding it upright. The rope is cinched tighter. The pickup pulls away, the tree nodding at the top.

2:00 p.m.

The living room floor is covered with a string of lights. Someone pulls it from the cardboard box, working out the knots. The fat glass bulbs are green, red, blue. A second string spills out onto the rug, its wires twisted. The first string is plugged in, and the bulbs come on all at once, filling the room with colored light.

One bulb at the center stays dark, its filament loose inside. The plug is pulled, and the string is coiled on the floor, the dark bulb still in place. A fresh string is lifted out of the box, still wrapped in its plastic clip. The lid of the box is marked "Xmas lights" in permanent marker. The carpet smells of dust and pine. The light through the window moves across the wall, catching the dust in the air. The tester presses the bulb again, then pulls it. A replacement is slipped in from a spare pack, and the string lights up with an even hum.

5:45 p.m.

The tree stands in a red bucket of water in the corner by the window. The lights are coiled on the floor beside it. A box of ornaments sits on the stair landing. The room is grey with late afternoon. A porch light comes on across the street. The tree's lower branches brush the baseboard. The top of the tree bends slightly toward the ceiling, its tip touching a cobweb. The man who carried it in leans it a little to the left, then steps back and squares it. No ornaments hang from the branches. The air smells of pine sap. The water in the bucket moves with a small ring when the trunk is shifted.

11:58 p.m.

The refrigerator door opens again. The light reaches across the kitchen floor. A hand lifts the turkey carcass onto a cutting board. Slices are cut from the white meat, laid on bread. Cranberry sauce is spread with a knife. The sandwich is closed and pressed down with the palm. A glass of milk is poured.

Someone eats standing at the counter, over the sink. The plate is rinsed. The carcass is wrapped back in plastic and replaced. A cloth is wiped across the counter. The light under the microwave casts a blue glow on the floor. The refrigerator door seals shut, its gasket flat and silent against the frame.