It's Still Life

Liturgy for the Inherited Weight
(for those who must sort through the past)

I. The Objects That Remember

Every object in this house carries a memory,
one we pressed into it
with our hands, our habits,
our refusal to let go.

The chipped mug she dropped at seven,
her grandmother kept using,
as if the crack were not a flaw
but a signature.
A reminder that what is broken
can still hold tea.

The blue willow plate,
the perfect size for seeded cake,
its pattern worn in the centre
where the knife had been drawn
a thousand times
through the butter and the crumb.

The dogs on the windowsill,
white and gold and black-eyed,
staring out at the street
as if waiting for someone
who has not come yet,
or making certain
they do not.

II. The Ring in the Freezer

She finds a gold wedding band
among the coins and the credit card,
cold as a promise made
and then withdrawn.

She tries it on,
and it fits her middle finger,
waiting for her hand
to grow into its shape.

Whose ring is it?
Whose finger wore it?
And why was it kept
in the cold,
among the frozen peas
and the forgotten receipts?

III. The Letter Locked in Paper

And then …
a piece of paper,
folded into a shape
that is not quite a letter,
not quite a puzzle,
but a door.

A spiral letter lock.
A fold that holds the words
inside itself,
as if the act of opening
would be an act of trespass.

She knows that what is written there
could change everything.
Or could be nothing at all,
just another piece of paper
that the dead have left behind.

IV. The Oppression of Objects

Object after object
goes into the charity box:
the mug, the plate,
the smoke-soaked
living room curtains.

But some things resist:
the dogs that will not turn,
the ring that should never
have been in the freezer.

She lets things go
with a kind of tiredness,
the exhaustion of carrying
what was never meant to be hers.

Each object is a memory.
Each memory is a tether.
And she is tired of being tied
to things that do not answer
the questions she is asking.

V. For the Inheritor

Hold the chipped mug,
may its crack remind you
that broken things
can still be held.

Touch the blue willow plate,
may its worn centre
be a map of all the hands
that came before you.

See the dogs on the windowsill,
may their watching
become freedom
and not a sentence.

Take the ring from the freezer,
may its coldness
teach you
that some things are kept
because they cannot be given.

And keep the letter locked in paper,
may you find the courage
to open it,
or the wisdom
to leave it closed.

You are not the keeper of this house.
You are the inheritor,
and inheriting
is not the same
as carrying.

What you release
is not betrayal.
It is release.
And that, too,
is an act of love.