Inheritance

Inheritance

By M. F. B. Porter

My father was a very eccentric man. I ponder this thought as I turn the brassy knob of the heavy oak door to his study.  It’s familiar creaking hangs nostalgically in the air, and I recall a time many years ago when I pushed open this same study door, anticipating the sight of my tan, gray-haired father perched at his desk, peering at a stack of starch white papers.  Albeit, I was much shorter then, smaller too, but just for a moment, I could see him there, at his desk.  

He isn’t there now.
My shoe heels sink slightly into the burgundy carpeted floor, and I almost lose my balance when I let out a loud sneeze.  Dust.  Everything still looks exactly the same.  

Evening sunlight falls through the stain glass windows, leaving deep, sad colors sprawling over the floor and hiding old coffee and brandy stains.  I scan the three windowless walls' built-in bookshelves, fully clothed in hundreds of stories in every genre imaginable.  History, action, adventure, poetry, classics.  My hand reaches out instinctively, my fingertips brushing the spines; Gatsby, Sherlock, Alice...  I pull away, my fingers covered in grayness, and finally sit down at the dark cherrywood desk.

My father’s things are exactly where he left them.  An earth-toned globe in the top left corner.  A cup of only pens- no pencils- on it’s right.  Stacks of papers and notebooks shuffled together, a very old picture of the two of us at the art museum for my 12th birthday- the photo housed by a tarnished silver frame.  The years of polish on the desk feels like smooth lacquer underneath my hands.  

For another brief moment, I forget.

I begin rummaging lazily through the drawers.  Mostly it’s nothing of consequence, just old papers and files.  As I move to close the last drawer, a glimmer of something catches my eye.  I reach in slowly, and my hand closes around something metal and cold.  I bring it close to my face, opening my palm... Father’s family ring.  The band is darkened silver, like the picture frame, but in the center, a silver lion sits regally in a black oval.  Our family crest.

I’d seen the ring a thousand times on my his finger- but holding it in my own hands- it seems so much heavier.  Warm tears spill over my cheeks, and I pinch the bridge of my nose to make it stop.  No, no more tears.  I shouldn’t have any left.

I slide the ring on my middle finger, the only one even remotely big enough, and I gently slide the drawer closed.  Then I’m at the door, just sparing a last peek over my shoulder.

There’s no reason I ever need to come back to this room. I close my eyes, but still see the same view. The handle slips from my fingers, and the door shuts with a final muffled thud behind me.