Ray died six weeks ago We drove out Saturday—

Ray died six weeks ago. We drove out Saturday—

four hours, that gray highway, a sky

that couldn't decide. My aunt had said half a day.

It took all day. The garage was stacked high

with the dense accumulation of a man

who kept things. Oil rags. One coffee can

of receipts, the oldest with ink nearly gone—

1987, a hardware store, drawn

from decades. 2001. A gas station

two towns over. I read more than I needed.

No sense to it, just the accumulation.

My cousin stacked boxes. My aunt proceeded

drawer by drawer. Nobody talked much.

The light in the one small window changed twice.

The radio was on the middle shelf.

I plugged it in—the static, and then, precise

as anything: a country station. A song

I didn't know. We stopped. All three of us.

My aunt still holding the drawer things. The long

quiet of the garage. Nobody made a fuss.

The song went all the way through.

None of us moved to turn it off.

We didn't have the right words. We knew.

We stood there.

And then the next song started.