Coil

Inheritance His inheritance was not a black and white declaration Recorded on aging parchment Nor was it a treasure contained within an old chest Always seen in passing Throughout the years of his father’s life A chest remarked upon By its current possessor Saying, “Son, one day, you will learn of its contents And the riches that can never be taken from you” His inheritance, instead, was a recording Of a time that he had thought was surely forgotten The tape not of the greatest quality Yet the voices distinct and recognizable His mother being heard For the first time in a decade Her voice as crisp as it once was When he was a boy Sitting at the breakfast table Considering whether or not Wendy, the girl who sat beside him at school, Really had fallen for him as hard as she said The butterflies in her stomach Refusing to stop their fluttering So that she was made to lose sleep Yet, her beauty seeming unaffected By her restlessness His father’s voice Booming, as it always was, Up until his final days of old age, Cuts through the room Shocking at first By how much louder his voice was During a time of life His son is unable to recollect The sheer power of the voice Causing for some of the glasses to shake As a man expresses the joys of becoming A newly-made father Shouting to all those around him Again and again “That’s my boy, my boy My boy.”