Inheritance

Brown moving boxes, some labeled "to her apartment," "to my house," pictures of our children wrapped up, albums full of same things over and over, but in different places.  Some boxes are open, allowing the movers to see their insides: an honorable discharge certificate framed, an American flag in tri-fold. The phone rings in the background, and I answer it ; it's a familiar voice: the sun in California being "so goddamn hot, but so goddamn nice," "The drill instructors work us all day, but we make sure to party at night." It's good to hear our son is doing well. Is he your son? My son? She says, "He's a Naval construction engineer, you're an architect."  I can't even remember what she does. I say "He's in the Navy, I was in the Army. I didn't build things, I destroyed them, then." And now.

We load the two moving vans along with the movers. They drive separate places.