My mother called to ask

My mother called to ask

if her fridge was turning yellow,

if that's what happens to white things

when they age in kitchens

where the sun comes through

the window at the same angle

every afternoon.

I said I didn't know.

I lied.

I know exactly what happens to things.

The plastic fades from white

to cream,

the way my mother's probably is too,

the way everything yellows

if you stop looking away.

This morning I looked at mine—

the back is discolored where the heat rises,

where the light hits it daily,

where time has written its opinion

on the color of things.

My mother will get a new one

or she won't.

She'll live with the yellow

the way I'm living with mine,

the way we inherit

what we can't quite repair.

The ice maker still works.

The light still comes on.

It holds the food.

But it's not white anymore,

and we both know it now,

and there's nothing

either of us will do about it.