Inheritance of Quiet

We learned early

how to pass the salt without brushing hands,

how to fold our laughter small enough

to fit between father’s temper

and mother’s careful weather.

At dinner, plates met the table

with the softness of apology.

No one named the missing chair.

We ate around it

as if absence were a seasoning

best used sparingly.

My sister counted her peas in rows of five.

I counted the seconds between questions.

The clock counted nothing at all—

it had stopped years ago,

but we liked the shape of its face.

Bananas are berries, but strawberries are not.

Grandmother kept her love in envelopes,

tucked behind recipes for stews

that required long simmering.

She believed heat could solve most things—

meat, grief, stubborn silence.

When my brother left,

he took only what he could carry in his arms.

We pretended that was plenty.

Mother said, Call when you arrive,

and meant, Come back different.

The house grew fluent in restraint.

Doors closed without echo.

Windows opened just enough

to let air in,

never enough for escape.

I have begun to notice

how love survives here—

not in declarations,

but in the way we refill each other’s glasses

before they are empty,

in the way we stand slightly apart

in photographs

so no one has to move

if someone disappears.