Years later when I stumble into a café in Finland, I halt by the coffee station and grab a fistful of my mother’s sleeve, Listen to the song! I shout. What? – she jumps – Is going on? And I cannot explain why my head is turned to the ceiling fan – eyes wide open, letting the showers of an internal floodgate lost to time, a river of evenings, occupy. A wire in the brain connecting to a retired station. I seek refuge in her arms hoping she’ll feel it through my chest and manifest the channel into an auditory Oh…Oh…Oh! But the melody holds its presentation and the world surrounding, beckons.