time’s turntable

we sing along, catching each other’s eye in the rearview mirror

A record spins on the turntable of my son’s small, black suitcase record player, its familiar hot pink sleeve propped up against the piano stool. ‘You're my guiding star/ I do know who you are/ You're my guiding star’ sings a Scottish voice. As I listen, years fly out of the record’s centre, like sparkles from a wheel.

It is 1993. I am in the front seat …