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