He saved the receipts rubberbanded the ink worn to gray —

He saved the receipts rubber-banded, the ink worn to gray —

auto parts, I think. The dates survive. The rest worn away.

The oil rags were folded flat beside the bench, not just thrown.

That kept getting to me. Three days. Mostly alone.

My aunt would come through, hand me a box, disappear.

I'd fill it. She'd take it. We didn't say much. Fair enough.

The garage had that particular cold — motor oil, something severe,

not fear exactly, just weight, the particular weight of his stuff.

I plugged the radio in just to test the outlet. That was all.

It came on mid-song, a station, something I already knew.

I stood there maybe thirty seconds. Didn't call

anyone. Turned it off. Sat down. Nobody came through.

I texted my aunt: outlet works. She texted: thanks.

I'm still not unpacked. I keep thinking about those rubber bands.