She mentioned the story again at the table

She mentioned the story again at the table,

about the trip to the coast when the weather was fine.

I let her keep talking, I wasn't quite able

to tell her that memory was never quite mine.

I’d made it up once to sound less like a ghost,

and now it’s a pillar that’s holding the roof.

I watched the butter melt into her toast,

staring at the floorboards and avoiding the proof.

If I pull out the lie, the whole ceiling might drop,

so I nod at the details she thinks that she knows.

I wait for the sound of the chatter to stop,

while the weight of the fiction just settles and grows.