That song comes on the radio, the one you remember hearing, when she was driving and singing along, the brook of her voice bubbling about filling the car and lapping lightly upon the banks of your consciousness.
You turn up the volume, passing beneath the red light, sailing along Jefferson Highway,the shadows deepening from the autumn twilight. And in that moment, life seems deferential toward the two of you, the trees and streetlights casting their darkened images down before you, to adorn your way in a dappled thatch of light and shade.
Twenty years later, you now listen to that song and hear your children talking in the back of the car, they being the embodiment of your love and life together . But you find yourself, you know not why, considering the passing of your allotted years together, and you quietly weep for that couple who once sailed along the brindled highway, when all things seemed to exist only for the two of you.