What drew me was the rectangular squat of it,
the hefty boxful of sound you could plant
on a desk or shelf, its walnut veneer
nested among cables, chargers and string lights.
Next to me, a man inspecting a pair of headphones
saw me turn the radio over to check the tag
and smiled, more to himself than at me,
and I don’t know why I told him
my dad had a radio just like it and, isn’t it cool,
those three silver dials and a lighted tuning
scale so you can see what station you’re looking for?
He picked up a scratched iPod before I could say,
Look—no battery pack or carrying strap! So when
your mother settles down to her talk show,
she’s bound to stay where she is, paying bills
or reading or filing her nails, just like my dad
when he turned on his shiny Panasonic, permanently
set at DZFX contemporary sound of radio in Makati
while he signed papers or typed on the Smith Corona
as I sprawled on the rug, knowing he’d stay
riveted until Beethoven’s Symphony No. 7,
performed by the Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra
and conducted by Karl Böhm, reached its grand finale.
But for now the first movement was just gaining momentum.
It would be a while before the tsunami of brass
and strings that broke through the staticky silence would end
in applause and we’d stand up to do the routine
things around the house—but not yet—
not while that spell of sound held us,
pouring from a silver box rooted to the wall
and my father, leaning back in his chair,
eyes fixed in the middle distance between desk
and darkening window, wasn’t going anywhere,
and the brown shag rug beneath us wasn’t going anywhere.
from What Happens is NeitherFind more by Angela Narciso Torres at the library
Copyright © 2021 Angela Narciso Torres
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, LLC on behalf of Four Way Books.