City

This has to be somewhat oblique. Hopefully not TOO much.

We meet for dinner in the city between our two cities. We arrive
crammed together. My sister points at the wine list from her padded
bench. I look on from a facing chair. Our ghost sister, the middle one,
marvels at the grain in the olive wood. My sister and I secretly wish
the waiter were our offspring. They're attentive and full of praise for our
decisions. We clink the thin-blown glasses. We contrive closeness
despite the specter that separates us. I'm careful not to mention
estrangement. I'm careful not to mention daughters. My sister grows
louder with the wine and rigatoni. The man next to her tilts away.
The imperfect tense of her words tricks my lips. A relationship
stands up good or bad. Our ghost sister cools to the misplaced
diagnosis. None of us is blameless. If my sister didn't lean up against it,
her daughter couldn't punch a hole in it. Only the backlash inhabits us.