the radio

the old radio still works, despite its broken dial. my grandmother used to listen to it every morning, tuned to the same station, playing the same old songs. now, as i sit in her empty house, i turn it on, and the familiar tunes fill the air. it's a small comfort, but it's something. as i sit there, i start to think about all the times my grandmother used to fix things around the house. a broken chair, a torn page, a faulty switch. she had a way of making things work, of making things last. as i look around the empty house, i see all the things she used to fix, all the things she used to make. and i realize that it's not just the radio that's still working, it's the memories, the feelings, the emotions. they're all still here, still present, still alive. as i sit there, surrounded by the silence, i start to feel a sense of peace. it's a fragile peace, a fleeting peace, but it's something. and as i turn off the radio, and let the silence wash over me, i feel a sense of gratitude. gratitude for my grandmother, gratitude for the memories, gratitude for the small comforts that still remain.