Inheritance

Her grandfather called her to their front yard, “Come here, my child.” “I want to show you how to mend this net,” he said tenderly, his fingers weathered like the ropes he held, gnarled and worn like ancient driftwood. But her gaze drifted towards the horizon the pull of its horizon stronger than the weight of his quiet hopes. “I don’t want to learn,” she grumbled under her breath, kicking the dust, a powdery veil that crumbled and shifted beneath her feet, to leave his pride untouched. The old man sighed, “One day you’ll wish you had,” and left it at that. his hands busy with the knot, hers busy avoiding the duty as she played with the hem of her dress. Years later, when the net sat coiled and brittle, in a forgotten corner of her mind, she found herself standing by the ocean her hands clumsy, wishing for the wisdom she once refused to take. She understood that minute what he never said: Some things are not for the moment- but meant for when the moment has gone.