“What’s a turkey?” Portia leaned on the balls of her feet, snooping over the top of the wooden table at the list Papa was making.

He grinned and turned to grasp Portia beneath her arms and lift her into his lap. Portia tucked her tail to the side, resting it in her lap. “You heard mom and me talking?”

“Mhm.” Portia glanced over the list, recognizing some of the letters and words, but Papa’s scrawl was difficult to read. She squinted her eyes and wiggled her loose tooth with the tip of her tongue. “Something about fanksgiving?”

“Thanksgiving, yes.” Papa picked up his quill and dipped it in ink, sketching swift circles and curled lines. “A turkey is a kind of bird. Like a chicken, but a lot bigger.” He drew a long neck and a thick body. A half-circle of tail feathers jutted from the bird’s backside, and a thin piece of something dangled from its neck.

“It looks so weird!” Portia giggled. “What’s that part?” She pointed at the dangling section.

He tapped the point of the feather against the parchment and frowned. “Huh, it’s been a while. A wattle, I think?”

“A ‘wattle’? What does it do?” Portia loved watching the roaches around their house and at the dock, trying to figure out what each of their spikes and claws and limbs was for. But this thing looked useless.

“Makes them look pretty to find a mate, I believe.”

“Does mama have a wattle?”

Papa barked a laugh. “No. Mom doesn’t have a wattle.”

Portia had more questions but knew she would lose sight of the turkey if she kept going. She forced herself back to her first train of thought. “Hmm. So, what does a turkey have to do with fan— Thanksgiving?” She quickly corrected herself.

“Well, where I was raised, everyone celebrated Thanksgiving around this time of year, and most folks put a turkey on the table for the holiday. Guess I was just waxing nostalgic with your mom.”

Portia narrowed her eyes and looked up at Papa with a mirrored green gaze. “You were what?”

Papa chuckled. “Sorry, baby. I was remembering Thanksgiving, that’s all.”

“Why a turkey? Why not a fish? Or a chicken?” Porta traced the outline of the giant bird with one tiny finger. A drop of ink caught her skin and followed the trail, adding a bit of shade to its feathers.

“You know, that’s a great question. They probably had it at the first Thanksgiving.” Papa wrapped his arms around Portia’s waist and held her close. He kissed her head, his mustache tickling her ears. “I’ve been here quite a while, and I still forget how difficult it is to explain where I’m from sometimes.”

“I like your stories!” Portia insisted, leaning back against his chest. Papa’s hugs were the best—safe and warm and strong. “What else do you do at Thanksgiving?”

“Well, you give thanks, for one. My family and friends would sit around the table and each name something they were thankful for.”

“Hmm.” Portia stared at the turkey and thought hard, tonguing her loose tooth. She’d be most thankful if that darn thing would come out of her head. “I’m thankful for you and mama!”

Papa grinned and squeezed her tight. “Well, my dear, you took the words right out of my mouth.”

“What else did you do?”

“Well, besides the turkey, families would cook a big meal. All kinds of fruits, vegetables, fresh-baked bread, pies.”

Portia’s eyes widened. “How did you eat so much food?”

“Slowly,” Papa said. “And then you’d eat the rest for leftovers.”

Portia imagined their small dinner table stacked with steaming fish, mashed spiny potatoes, meozuna greens, and fresh nyapple pie. Her mouth watered, and she licked her lips. “Can we have Thanksgiving? You and mama and me?”

“I don’t see why not. But we’d have to help her with the cooking. Think you’re up to the task?”

“Yes!” Portia loved helping mama cook. “But, can we still have one? If we don’t have a turkey?”

“Of course, love.” Papa tickled Portia’s sides, and she giggled. “Thanksgiving isn’t really about the turkey. Just spending time with the ones most dear to you and remembering what you’re thankful for.”

“Could we fish together? And then we can help mama cook it?”

“I’d love nothing more.” Papa set Portia back on the ground and stood. “Why don’t we go now? Thanksgiving dinner won’t catch itself.”

Portia skipped off to the porch in search of their rods and tackle boxes.

This would be the best Thanksgiving anyone had ever had!