The Spirit of Thanksgiving
The chilly morning air clung to Hazel’s cheeks as she pushed open the door to the bustling shelter. The warmth inside embraced her, mingling with the comforting scents of roasted turkey, mashed potatoes, and the unmistakable sweetness of cinnamon. Her bag, heavy with supplies, bumped against her side. It was filled not just with the usual food donations but also with small jars of her homemade cannabis balm, a remedy she’d discovered to ease pain for those who needed it most.
This was her third Thanksgiving volunteering here. The shelter had become a quiet refuge, a reminder of the simple acts that bound people together, no matter how different their journeys. Hazel’s own path had been a winding one. At twenty-five, she had a modest business making cannabis-based balms and lotions, but it wasn’t always met with understanding. Yet, here, the balm was simply seen for what it was—a small gesture of healing.
She moved through the crowd with a practiced ease, exchanging warm smiles and familiar nods with volunteers and guests alike. Her eyes scanned the room for familiar faces when she noticed an elderly woman sitting alone at a corner table, her thin fingers curled stiffly around a plastic coffee cup.
“Hey there,” Hazel greeted gently, approaching the woman with a smile. “Happy Thanksgiving.”
The woman looked up, her eyes weary but sharp. “Happy Thanksgiving, darling,” she replied, her voice rough but kind.
Hazel set her bag on the table and took out a jar of balm, holding it out with a tentative smile. “It’s for the pain,” she explained. “It’s made from cannabis—totally natural.”
The woman stared at the jar for a moment, then laughed, a raspy, unexpected sound. “Imagine that,” she mused. “Making a living from cannabis. Never thought I’d see the day.”
Hazel felt a warmth spread through her, appreciating the woman’s frankness. “It’s not always easy to convince folks, but it helps. And that’s what matters.”
The woman nodded thoughtfully. “I suppose it’s not too different from how things were in my time. We did what we had to do to get by.”
Curious, Hazel leaned in a bit closer. “What was it like for you?”
The woman’s gaze drifted, her fingers tracing the rim of her cup. “Well now, that’s a story. A story about a young girl who thought she knew everything… and learned the hard way what really matters in life.”
Hazel settled into the seat across from her, eager to hear more. The room’s noise seemed to fade as the old woman began to speak.
***
The elderly woman adjusted her thin shawl, a hint of the cold still lingering on her skin. Hazel watched her with a quiet patience, sensing that the woman’s story was one that had waited a long time to be told.
“Let’s call her Rose,” the woman began, her voice softening. “She was seventeen, living in a big, beautiful house with more than she needed. A rebellious girl—bright-eyed and eager, but always feeling like the walls around her were closing in.”
Hazel leaned forward, imagining the young girl that Rose once was. “She must have felt trapped,” she murmured, as much to herself as to the woman.
The old woman nodded slowly. “Trapped, yes, but also curious. She was hungry for life. One day, she met a boy, wild and careless, with promises that glittered like the moon. She thought he was her ticket to freedom.”
Hazel felt a pang of recognition. The urge to escape, to break free from expectations, was one she understood all too well. “Did she run away with him?”
“She did,” the woman confirmed, a wistful look crossing her face. “Left everything behind—family, security, the comforts of a soft bed. She thought love and freedom would fill her empty spaces. But the world wasn’t ready to make it easy for her.”
Hazel sensed a heaviness in the woman’s words. “What happened to her?” she asked quietly, her heart already aching for the young runaway.
The woman’s eyes flickered with a mix of sorrow and strength. “The road was harsh. It wasn’t long before the boy’s charm faded, replaced by the harsh reality of hunger, cold, and the bitter taste of rejection. Jobs weren’t for women like her, you see. No one wanted to hire a girl who’d left home—too much risk, too much reputation lost.”
Hazel felt a surge of anger at the injustice of it, though she knew well how little the world had offered women in the past. “So she had to make her own way, didn’t she?”
The woman nodded, a thin smile tugging at her lips. “She learned to survive. She worked under the table, did laundry, cooked in diners, and cleaned houses. But no matter how hard she worked, there was always the weight of being ‘less than,’ always feeling like she had to prove herself just to be seen.”
As Hazel listened, she could almost see the young Rose struggling, her spirit both hardened and refined by the challenges she faced. This was not a tale of defeat but of grit, resilience, and an unbreakable will.
***
The elderly woman paused, her eyes reflecting the weight of a lifetime. “Rose kept going, no matter how many times she was knocked down. But one night… one night she found herself at the edge of her strength. She was cold, hungry, and alone—truly alone, for the first time.”
Hazel’s heart tightened at the image, her fingers clenching around the jar of balm in her hand. “What did she do?” she asked, her voice almost a whisper.
“She cried,” the woman answered simply. “Cried like she hadn’t allowed herself to cry in months. But in that moment, something broke open inside her. It wasn’t just the hurt. It was anger. Anger at the boy who’d abandoned her, at the world that refused her, and even at herself for thinking she could escape so easily.”
Hazel nodded slowly, feeling the raw honesty of it. “I understand that kind of anger.”
The woman smiled, her gaze shifting to Hazel. “I reckon you do, child. It’s the kind of anger that makes you stand back up when everything says to stay down.”
Hazel leaned forward, absorbed in the story. “Did Rose get back up that night?”
“She did,” the woman confirmed. “But it wasn’t just a matter of will. It was the kindness of another woman—an older woman like me—who offered her a place to stay, a warm meal, and some advice. Rose learned that sometimes, strength isn’t about fighting alone. It’s about finding the right people to fight alongside you.”
Hazel’s throat tightened at the sentiment, a surge of gratitude washing over her. “That’s what I try to do here, too. I think… I think it’s why I make these balms. To give people a little comfort, a little healing.”
The woman’s eyes softened as she looked at Hazel. “You’re already wise, then. It took Rose many years to understand that.”
The young woman felt a quiet kinship growing between them. Rose’s story, while rooted in a different era, resonated deeply with her own efforts to carve a path in a world that still didn’t always make space for women’s voices, choices, or power.
***
The elderly woman’s voice softened as she spoke, as if the memories had brought her peace. “It was the women she met along the way who taught her what mattered most. Not the men who promised her the world, but the women who shared their last loaf of bread, their threadbare blankets, their stories. In the end, it wasn’t wealth that made Rose’s life worth living—it was connection.”
Hazel felt a deep sense of reverence for this truth. She thought of the women she worked with in her business—some older, some young mothers, some survivors of past mistakes and struggles like Rose’s. It was clear to her now that the balm she made was more than a product; it was a way of reaching out, offering a small piece of comfort.
“Rose learned to be grateful for the smallest things,” the woman continued. “A kind word, a warm place to sleep, a hand to hold when the nights were too dark. And she carried that gratitude with her, even when the world still refused to see her as equal.”
The old woman’s words settled deep within Hazel, a reminder of the battles women like Rose had fought just to be heard, seen, and respected. Hazel felt her own work affirmed—not just as a balm-maker, but as a woman striving to make a difference in her own way.
“It’s a lesson we all have to learn,” the elderly woman added, her gaze steady. “True wealth isn’t in the things you own; it’s in the love you give, the lives you touch.”
Hazel nodded slowly, feeling the fullness of the moment. “Thank you for sharing that,” she said quietly. “It’s a story I won’t forget.”
The woman’s eyes glistened, not with sadness, but with a sense of completion. “And thank you, child, for listening. Sometimes, that’s the greatest gift of all.”
***
Hazel sat back in her chair, absorbing the quiet power of the story she had just heard. The shelter’s lively energy hummed around her, but she felt a stillness inside—a moment of clarity. In the elderly woman’s words, Hazel had glimpsed not only the struggles of past generations but also the legacy of resilience and sisterhood that defined them.
“Thank you,” Hazel repeated, her voice filled with a deeper sense of gratitude now. “For sharing your story. For being here.”
The woman gave a slow nod, her eyes reflecting both the hardness of her past and the peace she had found in her own way. “And thank you, child,” she replied. “For your kindness today and for listening. I hope you carry it forward.”
As Hazel gathered her things and prepared to leave, she felt a renewed sense of purpose in her heart. The balm she made, the connections she built, and the love she shared all felt more meaningful now. It wasn’t just about soothing aches and pains; it was about offering something far more precious—a bit of comfort, a sense of connection, and a reminder that no one’s journey needed to be faced alone.
Walking out into the crisp, late afternoon air, Hazel looked up at the gray sky, feeling a warmth deep inside her chest. It was a Thanksgiving filled not just with food and tradition, but with the kind of understanding that comes only from sharing stories and honoring the struggles of those who came before.
She promised herself that next year, and every day until then, she’d return to this place, bringing more than just jars of balm—she’d bring the compassion, respect, and gratitude that Rose’s story had reawakened within her. It was, after all, the true spirit of Thanksgiving.
