Treasure

So where do we house this arrogance?
In a jar on the shelf? Perhaps,
the porcelain, blue, cracked one
from your mother?
She shared that, as well
as that need she had to better everyone
around her.
You hover, as she did, looking for faults
in the cards I may have missed in solitaire,
a game so named for its singularity.
As you take things from my hands,
I place those absorbed insecurities 
into kitchen cabinets whose color choice 
was yours, as well
as the furniture in this sun-yellow room.
Feelings are stored in wine glasses and soup bowls
inherited from her that I clean.
Emotions hide behind dusted photographs 
on the living room wall. Hers.
I dare not sever them from my life.
They are, as you have said,
Perfect. Nevertheless, what would I know
of décor?
You pay the bills; I pay the price
of my inadequacies 
with rolled eyes and demonstrated
patience, as well
as my clutched hands.
I weary of your presents
and word gifts, as you
gently take my heart and 
instruct it how to beat better.
Anyway, what do I know?
Who am I to solve this complex jigsaw?