Working on this very short story about grief. Enjoy:

It was twilight again and I was cleaning out my parents house.
In the dark garage was my father’s old convertible-an eggshell blue MG 1973-whose top was always down.
But I won’t clean that space today-too dusty I’m sure-not yet. I haven’t found the keys anyway.
I’ll play the records as I clean. I’ll catalogue which ones have scratches and exactly where in each song. That’s a good start.
My parents, at least they weren’t horders. That would be worse. Plus my boss said have the week off, until you feel success. Odd use of that word, I thought. How can one do this successfully anyway.
Well, there won’t be any alcohol, so I’ll have her bring some in the evening. Maybe we could sit on the porch and have a hot toddy, and listen to the least scratched albums…
But it’s probably all that big band crap or even tuba music. Still, I may find some jazz in the stacks somewhere, I pray.
What’s the right music to start the day? I’ll play mom’s favorite from that blind Italian jew. Yeah, that will set the tone. There’s implied hope at least in the fact that a blind man can sing like that!
The needle drops electric level releases the weight of the songs. And that tiny blue white gold light of glowing tubes glows again The old metal arm, with that glow play light illuminates the room. All those years, I never dared do anything but listen. Now I’m the DJ. It’s up to me to play these records, to see them through to the next generation or even eternity.
Twilight passes into that glow. And maybe we never know, what dust the sun must pass through to create such glory.
Maybe that’s why he always kept the top off that convertible . Fuck it, I think I’ll start in the garage after all.
Now, where are those keys.