The radio was warm

The radio was warm.

Someone had been listening—

the dial still turned to the station,

the volume knob in the middle,

the whole thing dusted but ready,

waiting on the shelf like he'd step back

any minute and turn it on again.

I turned it on myself.

The sound came through clear—

a song I didn't recognize, voices

talking about weather, something

about rain coming in from the west.

Seventy-seven degrees outside.

He'd been listening to this.

In the coffee can next to it:

receipts folded, faded, dated in pencil.

1993. 1998. 2004.

Oil. Brackets. A filter.

A sandwich. A radio battery.

His handwriting—quick, functional—

the cost written small.

Everything small, everything careful.

The rags on the workbench,

darkened with decades of use,

still smelled like the work.

Oil, metal, something else—

the smell of a person

who kept things running,

who kept the world

in small, precise order.

I didn't touch much.

Just stood there

while the radio played,

warm in my hand,

his hand still there

in the heat of it.