Food for Thought

If I were to write a letter about all those I am thankful for, even if it might consist of a few fictional characters, the list would be as long as the decimal PI written out. Although I suppose I can try.

I am thankful for my father. He taught me how to use a fork and knife. The knife always goings in your dominant hand while the fork is held in your non dominant. Once you are done cutting, you can seamlessly switch to move the fork from your plate to mouth with minor damage along the way.  Even though Cheerios weren't my favorite, I would still eat them for you. When I got older and one morning you explained that you ate the Special K breakfast cereal for me, it meant the world and so I ate the sugared cardboard. Luckily this time I didn't throw up like I did when I was made to eat a tuna sandwich. Fortunately you never made me eat anything I didn't want to again, minus the extra spaghetti sauce I drowned my pasta in and the leftover milk from a hearty bowl of cereal, carefully airlifted from the pool of white to my child lips by a thin sliver of metal I grasped in my hand fearful of spilling. I remember the night I asked you to read a story I wrote and my sixth grade grammatical skills were not up to par, and are still not hence my horribly atrocious run on sentences and lack of hyphens when needed, but you smiled and told me you liked it. A year after that I had just gotten into your car and something was different. I know you saw the scars and fresh wounds on my leg, peeking out under the hem of my shorts, where the all my secrets were stored. You didn't say anything, but you let me know I could come to you. Even though I never took you up on your offer, it was very much appreciated.