The radio was still plugged in

The radio was still plugged in.

The cord ran along the wall

like it had been waiting for someone

to turn the knob again,

like it never stopped being ready

to remember how to work.

I plugged it in just to see,

and the static cleared,

and music came,

and I realized I'd never heard my uncle

like this, in this order,

this particular station,

this particular song,

and he was gone before I could know

what he was listening to

when he wasn't thinking about it,

when he was just working.

The receipts were stacked in a box,

the ink faded to almost nothing,

dates I didn't know existed,

store names that went out of business

before I was born,

prices that don't make sense anymore,

items I can't read,

from places I can't picture,

for a time I wasn't alive for.

Oil rags. Rust. The small careful handwriting

of someone keeping track

of what he spent,

what he bought,

what mattered enough

to write down.

I don't know what I expected to find.

Something like a diary, maybe.

Something like an explanation.

Something that would tell me who he was

when he wasn't being an uncle,

when he was just the person

in the garage,

listening to the radio,

keeping his receipts.

But it's just this.

Just the things he kept.

Just the things he left.

The radio is still on.

A song I don't know is playing.