Breakfast for Supper

At IHOP, after the skinny brunette with a band-aid covering her hickey comes to whisk away burnt toast, Mom mentions Theresa, face brightening. She had a dream about her—80s flip hair, smooth complexion. I’ve been living in Tulsa for eighteen years, Theresa said. I understand. Even as I watched men lower her casket, I fantasized the witness protection program had resettled her. How funny we look, mother and daughter laughing over scrambled eggs, tears dripping onto bacon, hands hugging coffee mugs. For a moment Mom felt Theresa there. Such faith. Freshen your cup? the waitress asks me, poised to pour. Cloudy in the cold coffee, my reflection. I offer the mug.