Celestial Murmur

At ninety, her world had shrunk
to the size of an upstairs bedroom with
a bathroom ten steps down the hall.
Her only lifeline to the outside world was
a radio console that glowed
soft as moonlight through the long nights.
At dusk, local stations would
fall silent following the national anthem
as the boundaries of day,
weather permitting, became elongated.
Minneapolis, Chicago, Denver
faded in and out as she methodically
navigated the bandwidth;
sometimes finding herself in Canada
before drifting on to Cincinnati.
Despite a Victorian attitude, baseball
was a passion, and any game
she came upon caught her attention.
Translating balls and strikes
through the crackly hiss of the static,
she intently followed each pitch
as if blessed with a front row seat.
Disembodied in that ether,
the ache of her years disappeared.
And whether it was sports
she found, music, or the day’s news,
sitting there in her tiny room,
comforted by that celestial murmur,
Aunt Minn was never alone.

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