To my housekeeper Imelda, thanks for last night when you joined us in the lounge to watch Evita as George and I lay cuddling on the couch. Thanks for wanting to share our quality time with us instead of choosing to retreat to your quarters after dinner. I saw how completely at ease you were sitting with us while also knitting that sweater for your beloved son, chatting and laughing. You’ve never shown that repulsion some straight people describe at the sight of two men kissing or being affectionate. You know I love you.
Thanks to the talkative travel agent in the crisp button down blue shirt and matching dark tie for not flinching when we booked the double bed for our upcoming Easter break. I was searching your eyes for the familiar revulsion but you saw my fear and purposely reassured me when you said, ‘It’s a wonderful lodge, you’ll have no problems.’ You understood how much this meant to us.
Finally to the female attendant at that petrol station along Limuru Road on Sunday evening, you noticed George’s hand caressing my knee when you brought my change back to the car. You showered me your dazzling smile as you’ve always done whenever you’ve served me in the past. You are a star.
What are you thankful for?