Legacies by Donald Illich Rockville, Md. Stored in the closet beneath the winter coats, a dusty cardboard box that could be computer parts or Christmas decorations, unused for twenty years, forgotten, is it even worth opening, this late, now? A stack of envelopes with foreign stamps, a can of Billy Beer, earrings and bracelets, fake silver, false gold, worthless, collected because some day, after roaches take over the world, they might be valuable. I was in kindergarten when my grandfather died. I only remember how his family wanted to toss him in the pool, tied him in his easy chair as a joke, or how he gave me a dollar I squeezed in my hands as we drove away one last time.  He won a Silver Star, carried a bazooka, but what was combat to me, who taped firecrackers to Army Men and called it the start of World War III? No one bought his legacies at the garage sale. After the change was counted, nickels and dimes mostly, I pushed the box back in. I bent the corners, tore a hole in its side, jamming it, trying to make everything fit.

(photo by Ronald Fortini)