Over hills and in "hollars" I find myself searching for new radio stations around every curve of the road. Not many will stay tuned in.
Gravel back road. I find a classical music station, and instantly I am transported to my childhood and the back of my parent's Datsun station wagon. Seat belts not yet required, my sisters and I flolloped like amoebas listening to stories in the music.
Wordless classical music floats on humid air, and I can hear my mother's voice from long ago weaving tales of castles and dragons into violins and oboes. The clash of the knight's swords. Percussion. Brass. The crunch of gravel under my tires.
The present reaches through the music and touches the past.