His granddaughter bought him the radio a few years ago. It’s a cheap little thing, the sound full of cracks and sudden high pitched tones, but it’s the best gift he had ever been given.

Every morning, he slips the long gray string over his head and lets the little blue box hang around his neck as he heads out on his walk around the block. It plays music from the years when he was young, as young as one could be, but felt so old. It’s music he can only hear on the radio nowadays.

He walks slowly, savoring the morning sun, picking cherry plums as he passes the trees laden with ripe fruit. Every so often, a neighbor passes him by and smiles, carrying along the tune from his radio as they go on with their day.

When he gets back, the radio needs a recharge and his pockets are full of cherry plums. There is a song on his lips.