At Thanksgiving we had our little stunted celebration in the backyard. My son and his girlfriend, my husband and I, we huddled in our coats, with our lawn chairs spaced out judiciously. We wore our masks. Just another staged pandemic family holiday.

And after the apple pie was consumed, I handed out my little party favors. This year, a handful of fluffy chick for each guest to hold and keep warm. A peeping baby bird to snuggle in the palms of their hands.

I thought it would be fun. I’m attempting to socialize these birds, and what better way? We may not be able to cuddle our loved ones, but we can love on a chick.

Remember when we were kids and we all got those goody bags at the end of the birthday party? We would tote them home as little souvenirs from the party. Often they were lackluster – cheap, plastic toys or a bit of candy or a silly whistle.

But what mattered was the thought. The tiny tokens were a way of remembering the event, capsulizing the moment, in a gracious gesture.

Holidays during this pandemic also feel a bit like that takeaway prize. But the problem is, we aren’t even allowed to experience the actual party, instead we’re forced to make do with the scrap of what remains.

We must use our memories to call upon the fuller experience, to imagine and just be grateful.

Anyway, today I spent a few hours in the yard, watching my four baby chicks scratch and bathe and peck around inside their new enclosure. Since the days are warm, I can let them out in the fresh air for a few hours.

My baby chicks, my live party favors.

I scrutinize them, their funny antics. The sun is a big heat lamp for them, they move towards it and roost in the warmth. And they hop and fret, jockeying for position near the green clump of parsley I have pulled out of the dirt and dropped into the pen.

I sit and ruminate on them. Vitality, freshness, cheek.

They are not the party, they are the side dishes.

But still I think that they are also the real-life prize. These cheap, throwaway birds are actually the main attraction. They are what will remain when the dust settles, worthy of prime time.

I mean, once the virus is under control, I will be here and so will the chickens. The small animal bodies are true life, real. Maybe more relevant than anything else here.

So anyway, the sun warms my cheeks and I marvel that it is December. I’ll take it as a gift. Like the chicks, I grab that patch of sunshine and let it leech into my bones, let the Vitamin D saturate the corpuscles in my blood.

And I hope that my body’s reserves of endorphins will get me through this long winter of scarcity – with its small tokens of human contact. And I’ll pray that a boost of grace from my party favor chicken babies will get me through.

I’m counting on it.