The way an empty coffee mug rings on a metal table

We had this old speckled enamel mug that lived on the tailgate of the engine. After the last breakfast of a roll, when the crew had scattered and the fire was just memory, I'd pick that mug up and set it down. Not a clang, more of a hum — like the air was still full of names we hadn't said out loud. That ringing is the only piece I carry with me now.