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The Day After... 

Acolytes of Inheritance


by Jack Moore, Nipomo

So curious that it had cleaved cleanly in two. Being made of glass, not crystal and having tumbled from the shelf, it was an entirely remarkable occurrence. The moment of reprieve to regard this marvel was short-lived and the argument that preceded it morphed into a brusque discussion of what to do with it.


An aesthetically unremarkable object, not even worthy of dusting, it was generally assumed it would be deposited in the garbage, the small shards Hoovered from the carpet, and the clearing of Gran’s house would continue. No one felt sentimentality toward it, it was not an heirloom, and there were far too many other things to deem worthy of family heirloom or trash to linger too long on this one object.


The afternoon sun hit the two halves of the bowl, and it was the first time I ever regarded its presence in this house as anything remarkable. I considered its journey across the Atlantic and up the Mississippi. How, in a neoclassical manor, it might have been set upon a shelf, not in dissimilar fashion to ours.


Maybe, Nancy had looked at it, admired it, and imagined it on her own shelf, or maybe she thought of how, not unlike her, it came in the cargo hold of a ship. And perhaps, these glances were why it was given to her as she left, free, on the journey to the Bisbee. Perhaps Gran similarly marveled it on the shelf in her shack it might have been why she felt compelled to gift it to a young Gran on her deathbed. Thus continuing the cycle of this object sitting on shelves, bearing witness to stories. A thing to be admired, and only regarded when it would be brought to its next resting place.


Though this is only conjecture. It could be a host waiting for its story to continue, or maybe it was simply another broken thing, to be swept up and it’s mythos forgotten. Just like the rest of everything.

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