Inheritance
I inherited my father’s diabetes, who inherited it from his mother, who, in turn, inherited it from her mother, who, on her deathbed, clung to a rosary and begged for the priest, who, when entering her dark room, gagged and stumbled out, refusing to give her the Last Rites, because he couldn’t tolerate the stench of the gangrene rotting her left leg. I inherited my father’s disgust for the Church. His stockiness, bowed legs, barrel chest, and prominent forehead. I didn’t inherit his propensity for grit and sweat—for pulling tree roots out of dirt by hand or hammering shingles on a roof in summer heat. I didn’t inherit his taste for okra or his predilection for the sea. But I inherited his love for inside jokes. Family and friends stare blankly, unable to comprehend, while my father and I stretch out in lawn chairs, both of us laugh-crying, holding our sides, unable to catch our breath.day moon
my father’s shadow
in my path
