When my maternal great-grandmother, my Momo, was dying, I would go most nights and sit by her bedside. The room was dark, and the heavy lucite radio that had always been next to her bed glowed. Since it was 1991, it played Walking In Memphis over and over again in the nights.

One midnight I sat there with my momma and grandma, listening as we held her hands and each others too. I gazed into the bedcovers, and eventually saw that we all had the same small hands. Thinish fingers, long nailbeds, similar knuckles. I was 15, and I saw what my hands would look like at 39, and 65, and 81. An odd, small peek into the rest of my life, lit by a lucite radio and that song.