Not Everything Was in My Father’s Will

My father left me a CD with nothing in it and a record of all his closed accounts. He left me a hole in which to deposit old birds, the bust of the uncle he hated, old newspaper clippings of ads for clothing lines he was selling, the transistor radio he pressed to his ear to hear the ballgames, tales of his early days tossing feed to the chickens and chasing after the cow that wandered off into the field, the words to songs he no longer remembered, but still tried to sing. He left me a bridge to Paris the size of a chipmunk and a deed to a parcel of land on Mars. He left me the lingering scent of the Wildroot Hair Oil he combed through his thin wavy hair every morning. He left me the shadows inside his closet, waiting for the venetian blinds to be opened at dawn. He left me three pairs of glossy black wingtips and the sound of their shuffling over the sidewalks. He left me a leather jacket that held the shape of his round belly pressed against its buttons. He left me an envelope of Kennedy half dollars, each a talisman against curses and bad luck. He left me the country of hope floating in his brown eyes, the broken tree of his Hungarian ancestors, his favorite cliché about the past, “That’s ancient history”—and his hunger for heavy stews.