Friday night and we are out to eat, two widows proper and me, widowed by the death of a girlish dream. 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...