diners club: becky's

where everybody knows your name

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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