She reached over to the glove box and grabbed the orange CD binder holding her favorite albums. In an era where Bluetooth and USB cords connected us to an app filled with endless artists, she preferred to hear an album from the intro to the last song. As an artist herself, she knew that the album as a whole contained a message that could only be heard when played as a whole. Like a visit to the opera, it would be distasteful to walk into the performance during the middle only to walk out after the intermission.

She pulled out her Bob Marley’s Greatest Hits album, pushed it into the opening, and let the music begin. Rolling down all the windows, she could feel the sun’s heat warm her left cheek and forearm, and the breeze cool her neck.

She got lost in the words and found her way back to her memories and existential thoughts. She loved to imagine how lucky she was that she was able to truly hear his words in the melody. His song was sent up to heaven and dedicated to God, not intended to become an anthem for any young buck getting high at a party. She sang his songs as worship music to the God she believed in, leaving room for silent tears when his words hit a soft spot.