I was waiting for the repairman

I was waiting for the repairman.

Pulled a box from the hall closet

I hadn't opened since the move.

Records. I went through them one by one.

His was near the bottom—

I knew it by the orange label,

the corner of the sleeve worn soft

from being flipped through fast.

I turned it over looking for something.

Found the inner paper sleeve.

His name. Black marker.

My handwriting.

I stood there in the hall

with the record in both hands

trying to place the afternoon I wrote that—

what room I was in,

whether he was there,

whether I thought I was labeling something

that would eventually come back.

The repairman didn't show.

I leaned the record against the baseboard,

label facing the wall.

Didn't put it back in the box.

Didn't move it.