clunk
The attic stairs land roughly
Bouncing as they impact the carpet floor
Dust scatters in the air
Choking even through your mask
Ascend them
Up those rough slabs of wood
Into a place left alone
But not unwanted
It’s dark up there
The torch burns without fire
Clearing a path of vision
And revealing the hoard within
This is where he kept them, right?
Move through
Passing old boxes with older contents
Draped sheets watching vigil
Kept safe, but kept away
…Found them.
A single box spaced from the others
As if reverently, as if with guilt
Looking inside confirms it
A dozen squares of faded cardstock
The old player sits beside
A cloak of dust shrouding the glass
Looks too fragile to take downstairs
But that’s what the power bank is for
…Moment of truth.
Plug the cord in
Take out the first
(It was always the first)
Set it upon the tray and
Listen.
To a song you just barely remember
To the shapes of a time long past
To the image of a father’s friend
Now half-forgotten, but not wholly
Listen.
As the world you know falls away
As the scene unfolds like a vision
As you bear witness once more
To the echo of an era at its’ prime
Listen, to the memories of an old vinyl.