he didn't believe in technology. wrote all his works by hand. shunned my offer to buy him a computer. he'd only been behind the wheel once in his lifetime. a bike, his feet, his wings taking him here or there and back again. played tennis practically daily, and sweetly sung peace to anyone who passed him. every summer he'd buy bushels of crabs for his entire block while blasting reggae loud enough to make it a party. and most importantly, he never, ever, stopped listening to vinyl. his record collection, large and diverse, taking hours for me to go through, dissecting every album cover when i was a little girl. on the weekends, we'd listen to gregory isaacs, gil-scot heron and teena marie into the wee hours of the night, the smell of oils and his "special cigarettes, our ambiance.
this record player is the last thing i bought him. and now it sits in the garage, along with his record collection, his bike and a dark, rare picture of a disheveled billie holiday awaiting to make it's home where ever i finally decide to make mines.