dinner party with the ghosts of my past

I set the table with the finest linens:

a velvet tablecloth, deep ruby in color;

ivory napkins made of silk.

down the center sit candlesticks and

baby’s breath and a thousand photographs.

ghosts do not require physical nourishment,

so I set out neither food nor drink.

they will dine on memory—

on moments of my life that were, for me;

that are, for them. they are the ghosts of my past,

and I am their present,

their everything.

I never know who will attend,

each guest a surprise.

the ghosts of ex-best friends,

childhood bullies and old co-workers,

passing strangers who touched me

enough to leave a mark.

we perform this ritual each year,

it’s purpose unclear to me.

still, I set the table, empty wine glasses

and plates arranged with care,

grant them an audience for the evening,

let them resolve the unfinished

that keeps them here, haunting me.