There are songs we like, songs we love, and then there are songs that quietly claim us, staking their territory in a moment so specific and deeply felt that no matter how many years may pass, the first note is enough to take us back.

It’s a peculiar kind of time travel, isn’t it? More reliable than memory alone. You may forget what you wore, what you ordered, even what you said—but a song will remember for you. It keeps the room intact, the light just so, the air exactly as it was.

Mine arrives with the opening piano of “Tiny Dancer” by Elton John. And just like that, I’m no longer here. I’m in a swimming pool in Palm Beach, more than twenty years ago, under a wide and forgiving sky.

My daughter was six months old.

She floated in oneof those little inner tubes made for babies—equal parts adorable and slightly ridiculous—her legs kicking with the uncoordinated determination that only infants possess. I was in the water with her, gently pushing her from one side of the pool to the other. Back and forth. A quiet rhythm. A kind of choreography only the two of us understood.I had headphones on—large, I think. This was before everything became so small and seamless. Back then, listening to music required a bit of commitment. You wore it, almost like a helmet, as if preparing for impact.

And perhaps, in a way, I was

Text: Jeffrey Cohen