Brother Bill once said the VFW hall

is where old bowlers go to die.

Mom brings me here to celebrate my birthday

with a burger basket and a beer,

amidst coughs and hacks of skinny old men

and fat bottomed women with cigarette lines

carved around bright red lips.

You get a free drink on your birthday,

if you’re a member, and Mom is. How

I don’t know, unless being a much decorated

survivor of two marriage wars

is her pass to the club.

I can’t get comfortable

among the bowling shirts

and Bill’s words echoing in my head,

which aren't funny anymore since he fell

off a barstool and is dead.

Mom shouts to the bartender

I’m her daughter, and waits for the shocked

look of disbelief – we must be sisters, right?

The mirror shows two middle-aged women.

One nods and smiles.

One watches for ghosts.