The Inheritance

THE INHERITANCE

Solitude, a warm fuzzy baby blanket 
gifted to me at birth, that I never outgrew, 
but forgot about during the noisy years of childhood, 
adolescence and youth; it gathered dust, 
faded like a distant memory, waited patiently 
for me to reclaim it as my own.

An inheritance from my father,
it came to me on his passing --
a source of comfort, a companion
that had helped him when my mother left.
At forty-five, I drag it along with me like a child, 
on my walks in the park. Together, 
we watch  the wagtails in the mornings

dipping their heads in the green grass searching for food,
the yellow-throated warblers flitting from branch
to branch surveying the world, the wild geese 
that fly home when the sun bids farewell,
and the gardeners busy at work, trimming hedges.
We breathe in the fragrance of honeysuckles
and admire the hardiness of geraniums.

It sticks to me like skin, protecting me
from the glare of a crowd;  together, we listen,
laugh, make conversation, and when alone, 
string it all into poetry; so much like dad, I think. 
Only his were stories of monkeys and foxes, 
chickens and bees, flies travelling to Sicily, Azerbaijan and Lyon,

carrying a wealth of information 
on their gossamer wings. The sparkle in his eyes
when he shared the world with us
and how it glazed when in a crowd --
I had blamed it as a quirk, felt sorry for him, 
not quite understanding that he wasn’t lonely 
or anti-social, but enjoyed the company of Solitude.
 
I understand now when on my own I sit, 
and it rests its head on my lap, 
I run my fingers through it,
its familiar touch
making me feel closer to dad
and grateful that I inherited
its quiet contentment from him.