I dreamed the old motor remembered my name

I'm in the old plant, the one they tore down in '09, and every motor on the line is humming in a key I almost recognize. My hands are young again, scar-free, but the motors are humming a hymn about cheap windings and people who forgot how to solder. One of them vibrates my name out of the housing — not a word, just the shape of it, like a bearing wearing true. I wake up and my palms ache like I'd been gripping a pipe wrench for hours, and for once that ache feels like a blessing.