Inheritance

Inheritance

My father’s briefcase was made from tough brown leather,

with a strong handle and a burnished lock. Inside,

three compartments kept manilla folders upright

and prevented chaos. Each night he placed it on the linoleum

in the kitchen, below the green laminex table.

After dinner, its contents piled high around him,

my father worked late, very late, the humming fridge

his only company. This went on for years, despite

predictions that we would all work less and play more.

Only in his Clayton’s retirement did the briefcase

become an irregular moon hidden by fluorescent clouds.

They don’t make briefcases like that anymore. Years later,

my father gave me one—a replica, a blood brother—

acquired from an op shop in Clifton Hill. I filled it

with unfinished stories and recalcitrant poems, with lists

of books to read and women to ring, with paperclips

that were forever absconding under the stiff green flap

that lined the bag’s deepest crater. I treasure this gift as others

might treasure a gold tiepin or a Volkswagen. Each evening

I work, head bent, pages shining with light. And if you ask me

I will tell you plainly that I am not at all like my father.

Andy Kissane