Inheritance

Kneeling at my father's grave. Alone. I wipe dirt off his gravestone, trace my finger over his name.

Merry Christmas, Daddy. A tear falls onto the grave marker. I rub it in. A tiny smear of mud. Time has blurred. 

I’m going to Greece, Daddy. I know, crazy, right? I think you left something back there. I'm going to find it.

Daddy. You worked so hard, and you did so well, and then you gave up. Why? There could have been an inheritance by now, but there isn't. All that work, and for what? I'm whispering into my fist, wet with spit and tears. My god, you had so much potential, so much inside you -- wisdom, courage, strength, passion, love. That's it. That's my inheritance. You planted that in me, goddammit, and I'm claiming it.

And your stories. You gave me stories. There, too, is my inheritance.

Spirits stir. A yes rises from the ground all around me. Stories. Yes! A thousand times, yes.

Unfortunately, I also inherited whatever fool thing made you undermine your own success, so I have that to contend with. I'm not sure what I'll accomplish or find in Greece, but I'm going. And I came to ask your blessing.

I wait. I listen. Silence. Daddy? Nothing.

The ground is cold. My knees are cold. My father is cold.

It’s Christmas Day. The living are gathered a few miles from here, waiting for me. I get up, brush off my knees, and I leave the cemetery, my inheritance and me.  

And I go to join the feast.