The Amber Dial

The garage holds the smell of him—

oil, dust, and something dim

that shouldn't be sweet at all.

Receipts from '87 in a tin,

the dates so small I squint to see them,

written down like a prayer, like a spell.

He kept them. Why? To ring

some bell? The radio sits on the shelf,

plastic cracked, and when I plug it in

the dial glows amber, warm and bright—

remembers stations, hymns, voices

selling what he won't need.

I leave it on. The light

stays steady. I have choices

to make, but first I kneel

and learn to hold the things he kept,

learn to know what is real

in a garage where a man once wept

or didn't weep, just stored

his life in tins and rags.

The radio hums. I've learned to afford

the amber glow. No need for flags—

just the hum, just the light,

just me here in the night.