The Weight of the Inheritance

It won't go through the bedroom door.

It sits in the hall, a dark, oak chore.

I stubbed my toe on the heavy base

and apologized to the empty space.

The doily is yellow, the lace is thin,

holding the dust of where she’s been.

A circle of gray where a lamp once stood.

I’m losing my mind to a hunk of wood.

It smells like damp earth and old-time gum.

I am my mother’s daughter, so I am dumb.