Sometimes an object out of place becomes the only thing in place. A very small narration, hardly a story. A micro narration in a minute or so.TRANSCRIPTThere is an old amplifier in my grandmother’s backyard. I’ve asked, but nobody knows how it ended up there. My grandmother’s backyard is not a place where you would expect to find an amplifier. Hens live inside it. In the backyard. I spent part of my childhood contemplating the dark object. In my memory, it has always been there. I realize now that in the Seventies when I was a child, amplifiers were precious, not something you throw in the backyard. My grandmother died last Tuesday. It feels odd to ask if I can have the amplifier. But that’s really the only thing wish I had.