Our waitress leads us to a four top, one empty chair for the phantoms we bring.
We three share genes and a bloodline, but have different ideas about dressing a biscuit.
My aunt asks for apple butter, my cousin requests honey from a bear and I opt for maple's syrup.
The phantoms are silent. No one asks what they would have liked.
My aunt, alone the longest and of a quiet nature, is content to share our company.
My cousin, twice widowed yet too young to retire, is - unbeknownst to our waitress - a former five star general in the order of Cracker Barrels.
I feel the need to create content, to lift countenances; we are not begged by little voices to please, pretty please, play checkers.
The phantoms clear their throats and I push the peg game meant for one in front of their empty chair.
"I wonder if they have blueberry muffins tonight?" my cousin asks aloud
"Oooh, mmm!" my aunt replies.
They've been here before, done this a time or two.
But now we are three. And tonight, we are all free.
Freewheelers... like three, but free.
When our Rising Star appears beside the table, our general in disguise requests three blueberry muffins, sliced and thrown onto the grill.
Most people don't know you can do that.
I object. I've already had a syrupy biscuit and a corn muffin is promised with my meal.
Too much bread, daily.
"Trust us, you want one." they agree
We linger, not over coffee, for our cadet is struggling to learn the juggle.
Sometimes, as we chat, a phantom gets a nod, for our lives and theirs used to be one.
We box up the abundance, including three blueberry muffins, sliced and grilled through the middle.
"That will be just the thing with your coffee in the morning" the experienced widows tell me.
A curl of smoke rises from my cousin's porch rocker to the Gospel music playing overhead.
My aunt rocks on steady, watching the clouds change color, as the sun sets behind the Lowes across the street.
They have chosen rockers on either side of an old church pew.
"Are you guys saying I need to go to church?"
I sit on the pew with my leftovers and a bag of general store goods.
"If the shoe fits!" laughs the rocker to my left.
And it is accidentally, instantly funny, for I've invited them to church with me countless times.
But on Sundays, I sit alone.
We each take home a miniature toy that represents childhood joy,
reminders that we've come far and do not walk alone.
The phantoms let us open our own car door, withholding their good night kisses.
We, busy making plans for next time, gladly fail to notice.
~*~
I scrawl this out over rapidly cooling coffee, the crumbs of a grilled blueberry muffin sinking into silt at the bottom of my mug.
They were right, it was delicious, and just the thing to start a Saturday morning in a house devoid of children. They have more than muffins to teach me, I know.
I'm looking forward to our next Freewheeling Adventure, I hear Fuddruckers might be involved.
Meanwhile, I'm happy and content.
Alone, but not lonely.
In my quiet house, 'where no one now is sleeping...'
