The Innheritance

The Inheritance When my mother died, she had a flat Belonging to social security and the was nothing Of inheritance to speak about She had a bookshelf full of books. Most belonged and Were stolen at the local library and she was selective When it came to literature. There were also books Stalin would have approved Happy workers at a collective farm. When I came the flat was empty; it needed a lick of paint ready to receive other clients, the bookshelf was gone. Relatives had taken furniture and pictures Which I assumed needed the more than me. I felt sorrowful about the books they were my mother’s Soul, most likely they had been thrown away By non- readers; mind I had read most of the books She was particularly fond of Dos Passos and John Steinbeck, but books never die, I remembered them. My mother and literature go together I no longer Read as much as I did, but my mother’s eyes are still There, in my dreams.