Your ghost sat and watched

while I cooked today,

shaking his head in disbelief.

This is our first Thanksgiving together.

“Do you do this every year?” he asked.

I was pulling apart long strands

of noodles, fingers sticky with dough.

“Yes,” I said

“I like doing this.

My grandmother did it and

I like to think of her.”

He sat on the counter drinking rum;

he is almost like you, but now

I’m starting to forget you, starting to

love him more.

“What makes them green?” he asked.

I said “Spinach”

and stood on my tiptoes giving him

a floury kiss.

He is almost like you and

I think it’s close enough.

by Cher Bibler