Ghost in my kitchen tonight. Off to the side, near the dining room table. Ghosts in my kitchen while I bake for the fair tomorrow, while I whip up something blue ribbon worthy.  Ghosts, telling stories to me, to each other.

“The ladies all gathered around and accused me of baking for your father, and I told them all ‘I don’t even know how to bake a sponge cake.’ ”

“Well he won every year till I beat him. Chocolate cake, raspberry filling, chocolate frosting, I think maybe Ken beat me in the Men’s Baking Contest.”

“Tara,” I hear them whisper, “Tara, make sure you fill all the cupcakes even.  Judges pay attention to uniformity.”‘

“Mmm. Good”, as if he would dip his finger in my red velvet batter, “don’t forget to scrape the side down, and those jars are perfect, it’s the details they look for.”

If I squint my  eyes in the light, turn my head just the right way, they’re just a shimmer away. A half a breath, in-between the here and the there. Ghosts. Carried in on memories old, stories numerous, sorrows deep.


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