Hand-me-downs

On the ride to Uncle Billy’s funeral
my father was holding forth on aging —
all the details —so banal, seemingly momentous —
the massive strain of psychic dead weight
even slowed the car down near Sebastopol.

“Who gets what when it’s my turn?”
he barked. He had run out of breath
between thinking and speaking that macabre idea.
My sisters wasted no time calling dibs
on needlepoint artwork, tchotchkes and kitchy utensils.

I was surprised neither of them claimed
The Gold Bowl, which was really brass,
with raised Chinese lettering we never translated.
My mother fought her brother over it,
like everything else, for seventy shared years.

It held house keys and the mail
for generations. Infants went for slow spins,
their diapered bottoms filling out the diameter.
Visitors’ eyes were drawn to it as
they came through the family’s front door.

“I’ll take the Gold Bowl,” was my claim,
bringing the first silence since landing at
SFO. My father grinned and my sisters
winced. I thought of Billy and his
sister and wondered if my father did.

(First published by Skyfreight Publishing House, June 3, 2026)