I was at the kitchen table doing homework.
Mom was stirring the sauce, tapping her foot to the music.
A new song came on, and Dad came in from the garage.
"Honey, it's our song!" he exclaimed, whirling her around the kitchen.
The lines on her face disappeared and she held the back of his neck.
That's when I knew:
Radios are really time machines.
And their song has become a place - one that only they can travel back to.