Cathie

Sunday morning. The line is long. I walk to the hostess stand to check the wait. Thirty-five minutes. It’s worth it. The food is good and cheap. Three thick slices in an order of French toast. I look for Cathie, our regular waitress. She knows our order by heart. I start back towards the end of the line when I notice a 5×7 framed photo on the shelf behind the stand. I move closer to get a better look at the picture. A headshot of a woman. Her blonde hair touches her bare shoulders. A smile I think I recognize. I read the words under the picture. Cathie, waitress—died. I pry details from the girl at the counter—when, how, who found her? I consider my reaction. I didn’t see her out. And almost anyone who meant anything is gone. In a dream, I scratch the bluebells off my black wallet and put them in a red pot. I never touch another piece of French toast.

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Linda Laderman is a Michigan poet and writer. Her poetry has appeared in numerous literary journals, including Gyroscope, SWWIM, ONE ART, Thimble Literary Magazine, The Scapegoat Review, Rust &Moth, Minyan Magazine, 3rd Wednesday, and Mom Egg Review. She has work forthcoming from Action, Spectacle and The Argyle Literary Magazine. She is the 2023 recipient of Harbor Review’s Jewish Women’s Prize, and was recently nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Her mini-chapbook, What I Didn’t Know I Didn’t Know, can be found online at https://www.harbor-review.com/what-i-didnt-know-i-didnt-know. Find her at lindaladerman.com.