At one house or another. At one sixty-year-old dwelling with its faded picket fence. With its Jesus paintings, its mothball smell.

Or another.

The unspoken rules clearly state that last week's host brings the coffee cake, brings a sweet-faced daughter-in-law to pour the tea. Maybe a baby to pass around like the cards. Always a bite of advice between those false teeth.

Stories tangle and tangle like string. A son in Seattle. The strange-named lady from the soap opera. Wanda's Avon samples.

Sometimes you wonder if they've got Vodka in those tumblers. The way they laugh on the thin brink of in-spite-of-yourself. How one nods off in the middle of a hand, mumbles about apples in her sleep. And then they laugh some more

There's an empty chair at the table. And the one who sits beside it is yours. She, of the lilac sweater. The berry lipstick. The elastic gone from her trouser socks. The way she'd slap your hand if you tried to straighten them.

Later, you'll use her recipe. And she will watch you make the casserole. Will watch you iron her funeral dress.

Later, you'll run her bath. Will man the lavender bubbles. The baby shampoo. Only then, will she speak of it.

I don't want to go like that.

Like you can control such things. Like you weren't already holding back the scream. Don't leave me, Mama. Mama, don't leave.

Susan Culver lives in Colorado with her husband and three daughters. She's a news reporter and the editor of Poetry Friends. Formerly, she was the editor of Lily: A Monthly Online Review. Her poetry and fiction have been published in a number of journals, both print and online.