She said, that afternoon: “When all this is over, you should go somewhere.”
“Where should I go?”
“Somewhere you haven’t been yet. Somewhere you’ve been putting off.”
I thought about it. “There are a few options.”
“Pick one and go.”
“Okay.”
She looked at the garden for a minute. “Promise me.”
“Mom—”
“I’m not asking for a deathbed promise. I’m asking for a regular promise. Go somewhere. Before you get too practical.”
I promised.
I haven’t gone yet. I’m getting there. It’s on the list.
The list that started as a list of what I wanted and that I’m still adding to, in the way you add to lists when you have, finally, the time and the space to notice what you want.
One item at a time.
That’s the real inheritance.
Not the money, which was fair and right and mine in the way that documented things are yours. Not the kitchen table, though I love it. Not even the quilt.
The real inheritance is the permission she gave me, on a Tuesday afternoon in June with her tea cooling and the garden doing its thing, to stop being only the person who was here and start becoming the person who goes somewhere.
I’m becoming that person.
It’s taking a little while. That’s fine.
I have time.