I am dining with a ghost.
He is everywhere—bony elbows on the speckled counter; a grilled biscuit order; jam smudges on the menu.
Two newspapers under his arm, red backpack from a million Christmases ago slung over his shoulder. The waitress who greeted him by name every morning is still here.
On the wall, a plaque: Best of Portland. Galley facing the bay. Four toasters, stainless steel coffee pots. A lobster roll on every plate but mine.
Tears in my chowder.
And outside, past the seagulls battling over a lone mussel shell, it hits me: my father is gone.
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Tears came from reading this one.
"Tears in my chowder." This is heartbreaking, Amie. The details you include make us all cry but paint a picture. Sad yet beautiful. The poetry of grief. Sending 💕