She didn’t reply. Instead, she popped open the Civic’s dusty CD player—the one she refused to rip out even though the car had Bluetooth—and slid the disc in.
By the time the last track, “Then You Look at Me,” faded out, the sun had fully set. The parking lot was dark. Lena’s tears had dried into salt trails on her cheeks. The car felt different. Warmer. Less like a metal box and more like a cathedral.
And sometimes, a CD from 1999 is the only thing that knows how to take you there.
Lena’s thumb traced the tracklist. All the Way. It’s All Coming Back to Me Now. Each title was a door to a room she wasn’t ready to enter. celine dion all the way cd
She saw her mom in the kitchen, flour on her cheek. She saw her mom in the hospital bed, hair gone, but still humming. She saw her mom in the passenger seat of this very car, pointing at a billboard and saying, “You see that? She feels it, Lena. That’s the secret. You have to feel it all the way.”
She didn’t put the CD back in its case. She left it in the player, turned the key, and drove toward the storage unit. She wasn’t going to clear it out today. But she was going to listen to the CD one more time on the drive there. And one more time on the way back.
Not a dramatic sob, but a quiet, leaking sort of cry. The kind that comes from a place you didn’t know had a faucet. Celine’s voice soared, impossibly clear, impossibly huge. “’Cause I’m your lady, and you are my man…” She didn’t reply
Now, she was twenty-six, sitting in a parking lot outside the storage unit facility where she was supposed to be clearing out the last of her mother’s things. The Civic’s engine hummed, the heater blasting against the December chill. She picked up the jewel case. The plastic had a few hairline cracks. The booklet inside was probably still pristine.
She slid the CD out of its tray. It was flawless. No scratches. She turned it over, watching the rainbow sheen of the data layer catch the weak winter sunlight. It felt heavier than it should. It wasn’t just a polycarbonate disc; it was a decade of her mother’s life, compressed into 73 minutes and 18 seconds of laser-read pits and lands.
She’d found it that morning, tucked behind a shoebox of old tax returns in her late mother’s closet. A Post-it note was stuck to the back, the handwriting unmistakably her own: “Mom – for the drive to chemo. We listen together. Love, L.” The parking lot was dark
The CD case was a battleground.
The first track was “The Power of Love.” Lena remembered her mom singing it off-key while making meatloaf, using a wooden spoon as a microphone. The second track was “If You Asked Me To.” That was the song playing when her mom got the call that the cancer was in remission, the first time. And then the third track… “Beauty and the Beast.” That was the lullaby.
Her phone buzzed. A text from her dad: “You okay, kid? You don’t have to do it all today.”