Aunt Carol

Aunt Carol,

her coffee mug steaming,

said it so casually,

like pulling a thread.

"You were almost an Eleanor."

The sound, heavy

in the kitchen air,

thick with toast and old news.

'El-e-a-nor.'

Like a velvet coat,

too warm, too formal,

not me at all.

My tongue felt clumsy,

trying to form it,

a foreign shape.

It sat there,

a ghost name,

on the counter,

between the sugar bowl

and the jam jar.

Another life,

a different jawline,

a quieter laugh, perhaps.

I sipped my tea.

The steam burned

just a little.