Inheritance
I don't remember you ever wearing this bracelet.
Don't remember admiring it's smooth exterior,
running my finger along its curve; feeling the Guyanese
rose gold warm as it rested against your paper skin.
Don't remember rolling the two bell shaped ends between my fingers.
Don't remember squeezing it around your thinning wristbone,
trying to make it tighter as we lay on your bed buying R's on Wheel of Fortune.
Don't remember it getting caught on your apron (the way it catches my purse straps)
as you sauteed chicken livers for gumbo roux.
The first fifteen years of me, you were there, then gone.
In your place, this bracelet, the kind of thing you rarely wore
(a gift from your in-laws), but saved away, one for each of your granddaughters
when you died. It's presence in my life a result of your absence.
I have worn it every day since then; I never take it off.
They will remember me wearing it before I pass it on.
Inheritance (Revised)
ReplyDeleteI don't remember you wearing this bracelet.
Don't remember admiring it's smooth exterior,
running my finger along its curve; feeling the Guyanese
rose gold warm as it rested against your paper skin.
Don't remember rolling the two bell shaped ends between my fingers.
Don't remember squeezing it around your thinning wristbone,
trying to make it tighter as we lay on your bed buying R's on Wheel of Fortune.
Don't remember it getting caught on your apron (the way it catches my purse straps)
as you sauteed chicken livers for gumbo roux.
The first fifteen years of me, you were there, then gone.
I inherited your name, your cheekbones, this bracelet,
The kind of thing you rarely wore, I never take it off.
They will remember me wearing it when I pass it on.