The Relic That Refused to Forget

The Relic That Refused to Forget

iPhone 12 Pro Max, Snapseed

The mint-green RCA Victor clock radio had been on her grandmother’s kitchen counter for as long as she could remember. No one seemed to know exactly when it had arrived. Maybe her grandmother had saved for it. Maybe her grandfather had brought it home one Friday after work. It was one of those things nobody thought to ask about while there was still someone around who knew the answer. 

It was simply there. Every morning, her grandmother turned it on before the coffee was finished brewing. Sometimes music came through clearly. Sometimes there was news. Sometimes she worked the gold dial back and forth through a wash of static until she found something she liked. 

 As a child, she barely noticed. The radio was no more remarkable than the linoleum beneath the kitchen table or the ceramic sugar bowl beside the stove. It belonged to Grandma’s house, and Grandma’s house seemed permanent then. The radio played while potatoes were peeled and dishes were washed. It played on cold mornings when the windows fogged above the sink. Her grandfather sometimes whistled along with songs he knew, usually while pretending he wasn’t listening. 

 Years later, those were the things she remembered. 

 Not birthdays or Christmas dinners as clearly as she thought she should. 

 Instead, she remembered the click of that radio turning on. 

 Her grandmother’s slippers crossing the kitchen floor. 

 A spoon against the side of a coffee cup. 

 Her grandfather whistling from the next room. 

 After he died, the radio stayed on the counter. Her grandmother still turned it on every morning, even after her hearing began to fade. By then, she may not have heard much more than the rise and fall of voices, but the ritual remained. 

 Turn the dial. 

 Make the coffee. 

 Begin the day. 

 When her grandmother was gone and the house was finally emptied, the radio was one of the things she kept. Now it sits on a shelf in a house her grandmother never knew. 

 Everything around it is newer. Quieter. Faster. But sometimes she reaches over and turns the old dial anyway. The static comes first. And just for a moment, she is back in that kitchen before she was old enough to understand that kitchens disappear, grandparents leave us, and ordinary things become precious only after there is no one left to tell us why they mattered. 

 She can almost hear the slippers on the linoleum. 

 Almost hear the spoon against the cup. 

 Almost hear her grandfather whistle. 

 The radio never really kept the memories. 

 She did. 

 It just knew where to find them.

Photo fiction inspired by a vintage RCA Victor clock radio. The radio itself belongs to me and was found at a salvage warehouse; the family memories are fictional.