There’s a ghost that lives in this house.

It pads around quietly,

and everyone pretends not to look.

It used to be one of them,

in the days when it could run a comb through its hair

or ride a bike.

Now it stands next to the table,

pretending to mumble along to grace.

Nobody acknowledges it.

They’ve all moved on ahead.

They’ll float out of this house on beams of light

and leave me in the dining room

trying to remember the prayers.