Inheritance

We sit at opposite ends of the table

that used to feel too small for us.

The varnish is chipped where you carved

your initials at fourteen —

you swore it was an accident,

as if knives slip only toward meaning.

Steam rises from the soup between us.

It carries rosemary and something burned

at the bottom of the pot.

You ask about my apartment.

I ask about your drive.

We circle the obvious

like dogs deciding

whether to fight or fold.

Mother’s china clinks too loudly

against the quiet.

There are things laid out with the forks —

the will,

the jewelry box,

the framed photograph

nobody wants to claim.

I watch your hands carefully.

They look like hers in winter,

dry at the knuckles,

veins lit blue beneath the skin.

You say we should divide everything evenly.

You say it’s only fair.

The mailbox key is taped inside the cupboard above the sink.

Outside, wind drags leaves

against the siding in thin, pleading scrapes.

I want to ask

why you weren’t here

that last week.

You want to ask

why I didn’t call sooner.

Instead, you reach for the photograph.

You turn it face down.

We both look relieved

and pretend not to notice.

There is a moment —

brief, unguarded —

when we almost laugh

at the same memory.

It passes.

We gather the plates without touching.

The soup leaves a crescent stain

on the table we refuse to sand down.

Some inheritances are objects.

Some are silence.

Neither of us

moves to wash the knives.