Inheritance of Silence

Families are not only made

of blood and furniture.

They are made of silence—
the lullabies that stop,
the rooms where arguments
stay trapped in the wallpaper.

As children we waited.
Headlights on the street meant love,
keys in the lock meant safety.
Later they waited for us—
dinners cooling on tables,
eyes glancing at doors
we would not open.

This is the cycle:
from waiting to being waited for,
from play to avoidance,
from worshipping faces
to avoiding their gaze.
Not cruelty—
just the orbit of life
repeating itself.

And still,
their absence shapes us.
We inherit their unfinished sentences,
their unsaid apologies,
their stubborn love.
We inherit silence
as surely as we inherit hair color.