Heirloom

The oak sideboard is too heavy for this room.

It sits against the drywall like an intruder,

smelling of lemon oil and a dead woman’s broom,

a dark, wooden weight that makes everything cruder.

I spilled a drop of water on the top today

and reached for a towel before it could sink.

I’m still waiting for her to turn around and say

that I’m careless, or messy, or don't even think.

I opened the drawer where she kept the good spoons,

and the velvet lining is stained with the years.

It smells like ancient dust and long afternoons

spent hiding the truth and swallowing tears.

There are deep, square grooves in my hardwood floor

where the feet have already started to bite.

It’s settled in now, right next to the door,

watching me sleep through the rest of the night.