Inheritance

It may not be the way my mother skips stairs. It may not be her small ankles. It may not be the way she waits for dust to gather on things so there is a sense of accomplishment when she finally cleans them. Coal on the blades of the fan. It may not be her handwriting. It may not be how she memorizes words and sentences so she could recite them when it gets quiet. It may not be how she likes to catch and set butterflies free. Or the way she collects the names of cities in notebooks and how she reads them aloud like nonsensical words. The obscurer, the better. Or how she senses earthquakes no one else seems to notice. Or the dizziness when she rushes to a conclusion. Or how she likes to open umbrellas in the house because "it actually brings good luck." Or how she spends her whole life trying to understand human relationships. Or how she vehemently denies her white lies. It may not be how conversations halt without warning. It may not be where she stresses syllables. Or how she furnishes her mind when she is bored. It may not be how she sent herself into exile. It may not be how she jolts at the sound of a bell or a paper clip falling on a clear mosaic floor. It may not be how she locates her center several times a day. It may not be her earnestness when she changes her mind. Or how she seizes objects as if they will slip through her fingertips if she doesn't act fast.

It may not be the way she knows she did the right thing because it felt right and feelings, must matter for something.

It may not be her eyes I inherit.

It may not be how my grandmother says, oh she used to dance, just like you. Or the way she fell silent and never sang again. Or the way her curiosity opens with a book and the way she reads it as if her life is on the scales. It may not be the way she collects her shoes, torn, broken, cherished. Or the way she makes her bedroom her own home.

It may not be her fire I inherit. The kind that knows how to burn the self.

It may however be the voyage: a civilization of endurance.