She said the name

She said the name.

Just a quick turn

of her mouth, like

a coin she'd meant

to pocket.

But it hung there.

His name.

My mother, then,

talking fast, about

old photo albums.

Later, I looked.

That picnic shot,

summer, maybe '89.

Dad, in his sunglasses,

arms around the kids.

And him.

A blur at the edge.

But the ear.

The curve of it.

Just like my father's.

Just like mine.

A ghost, not quite

hidden, in the glare

of a forgotten day.