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.”
It sat on the passenger seat of Lena’s beat-up Honda Civic, a beacon of 1999 plastic and nostalgia. The cover was a close-up of Celine Dion herself, her expression a mix of serene power and quiet vulnerability. The title, All the Way... A Decade of Song , was scrawled in elegant gold letters. To anyone else, it was a greatest-hits album. To Lena, it was a time bomb.
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. celine dion all the way cd
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. She saw her mom in the kitchen, flour on her cheek
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.
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 feels it, Lena
Because her mom was right. You have to feel it all the way.
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.”
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.
She remembered the day they bought it. Tower Records. Her mom had held it up like a trophy. “Look, Lena! ‘My Heart Will Go On,’ ‘Because You Loved Me,’ ‘The Power of Love’—it’s all the best ones. One CD to rule them all.” Her mom had a habit of calling everything “the one CD to rule them all,” even a collection of Gregorian chants.