Dad dropped off the three of us—
Mom, big brother, and me—
at Clearview Mall. Dad stayed
in the Buick and took a nap.
We were there for KB Toys,
to buy the just-released
Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.
My brother bought all four brothers
with his well-earned cash.
I didn’t have a penny to my name,
but I did have a voice.
After much fuss and stomping
in the middle of the food court,
my mother, fatigued by my whine, caved
and demanded that my brother
gift me one of these sewer ninjas.
Reluctantly, he handed me his least favorite,
which instantly became
my chosen one—
Raph is still the coolest.
Years later, this same brother
unwrapped his first CD player.
I inherited his cassettes—
the kind you had to fix with a Bic pen.
Once again,
his leftovers became
my treasures.
I didn’t even care
that we had different tastes in music.
As the youngest,
I lived on hand-me-downs—
not only the material,
but also memories and mood.
Even now, I keep receiving
these passed-down goods.
These days, I wear
my father’s cruel hairline—
losing here,
gaining there.
I am heir to my father’s ears.
I haven’t investigated closely,
but I’m almost certain
my brother shares the inheritance.
We have both received
our father’s temper—
a secondhand flame
that can catch light
even in the strongest winds.
Grown up now, I’ve come to see
this anger’s not just wildfire—
sometimes, with the right discipline,
it can light the dark.
I’ve heard that people, in ancient times,
used to inherit property and land.
As for me,
I was given a red-masked turtle,
a cassette full of someone else’s songs,
excessive ear fuzz,
and high blood pressure.
You don’t choose what you’re given—
it’s all still a gift.