The Inheritance of Women

Suzanna C. de Baca

When you died, we packed up

your old white farmhouse,

put your life into boxes and bins.

Nothing I own is worth much you’d said,

but still you’d lovingly labeled

cherished items for the kids and grandkids:

The blue Depression glass goblet,

the good china edged in gold,

the stained-glass nativity set.

There was talk behind closed doors

of the cropland, the barn, the house,

the bank deposits and investments

you’d carefully made by scrimping

and saving over the years. The assets

they called them.

But I snuck into the kitchen

and intercepted the giveaway pile,

quietly filling a cardboard box

with faded woven potholders, burned

on the corners, battered tin measuring cups

with tiny handles, each nesting

in the other, bent tin measuring spoons

held together on a thin metal loop,

the pastry blender with the faded

red wood handle and the wobbly tines,

the long smooth wooden rolling pin,

your faded blue apron.

When I cut butter and dip flour

and measure a teaspoon of this

or that, it doesn’t matter what sorrows

are spinning me downward because I hear

your voice, feel the spark of your warmth.

I can see your strong, crooked fingers

holding the round, fluted cookie cutter.

I can feel your breath and hear you laughing,

seated at the old metal kitchen table

with red vinyl chairs. I can feel you

in my own hands.