Beneath your wisdom, like a stone.

My mother used to try to teach me Bob Dylan and Leonard Cohen song lyrics when I was child.

Whether driving in the car, standing at the sink washing dishes, leaning against the old butcher block counter making dinner, or moving through the house with a dust cloth and the vacuum, she would play those artists’ songs on the kitchen stereo and sing in her trembling alto tones and then pause, look at me, and say, “Did you catch that? Did you hear what he said?”

And then, she would recite the line back to me, slowly, eyes closed, tasting the words on her tongue, each syllable like a sip of finely aged wine.

“Isn’t that incredible?” she’d exclaim.

My father did this, too, only with John Denver, Juice Newton, the Doobie Brothers, Fleetwood Mac, and later, oddly enough, Counting Crows and Coldplay. Tone deaf but determined, he’d holler the words to songs with as much abandon and passion as the voices streaming out of the speakers. I’d watch him and laugh, listening closely as he spoke/sang the lyrics, holding his hand as tightly as I held onto the memory in making.

I learned many, many songs this way.

And I remember songs this way, too, through my parents, through the exact phase of life in which they introduced me to Leonard’s “Famous Blue Raincoat” or Linda Ronstadt/Emmylou Harris’s “All I Left Behind” or Tom Petty’s “Walls” or the Doobie Brother’s “What a Fool Believes” or the Traveling Wilburies “End of the Line.”

Actually, I suppose I could say that about most songs—they’re all attached to a given point in life.

I was thinking about this on my drive home from work today, when I popped in my “Drive to Boston - Part 1″ mix that I made for my long trip north last April. (Yes, I drive an old car; yes, I actually still listen to cds, not my iPod, when in it.)

The first tune, “Fans” by Kings of Leon, instantly made me smile, reminding me of my trip to Portland last spring. A visit that included early morning hikes along the Oregon coast and an impromptu game of football on the cold, afternoon beach; a breakfast of Norwegian cheese, Italian sausage, French peasant bread, Maine-made blueberry preserves, freshly caught fish soaking in butter and garlic, and hot black coffee; a long lazy afternoon of discovering Portland’s artisan stands and bookstores, sitting in the grass, soaking in the sun, then drinking locally brewed beers; and a Moroccan dinner of apricot-soaked chicken, almond- and honey-laced lamb, cous cous with raisins, hare steeped in a thick cinnamon and prune sauce.

A kind man flirted with me that weekend, I thought today, as Kings of Leon played on my car stereo. A man who sat with me in the back seat and clapped his hand atop mine, plucked at my fingers like a guitarist plays his strings, then let go and moved to the muscle beneath my jeans, the clenched, nervous thigh I swung his way as I averted my eyes out the window, smiling. A man who gave me first and last sips, who made room for me on the couch, who helped me finish a silly, children’s Batman puzzle, who I could not fully look in the eye for fear I’d blurt out, “I love you!”, although we’d only met 48 hours ago. Ah, yes. A wonderful trip.

The next song was “Boston” by Augustana. I only listened for one minute, until I heard, “I think I’ll start a new life; I think I’ll start it over, where no one knows my name.” For a brief spell of time, Boston was my start-over, my new life, my clean slate. It’s satisfying to know I’ve let that facade fall; I’ve let this song go.

I switched cds and stumbled onto “Sometime Around Midnight” by The Airborne Toxic Event, one of my new favorite bands. The lyrics to this song represent a drunken night we’ve all experienced, and when I listen to this singer’s words, I both cringe and grin. Today, as I sped down Route 2 in the pouring rain, I heard him moan, “And the band plays some song about forgetting yourself for a while, and the piano’s this melancholy soundcheck to her smile, and that white dress she’s wearing, you haven’t seen her for awhile.” And I instantly thought about that time I first saw him, nearly two years ago, after going days apart, and how every minute detail of that moment snapped into focus, to attention, scratched into my memory like a scar. A melancholy soundcheck to a smile—I love this. As I once loved that moment, that man, when I hadn’t seen him for awhile.

Yes, the songs of my life, of my memories.

“World Spins Madly On” by the Weepies would represent my hours-long walks through Washington, DC, when I strode the streets anxiously, sadly. ”Chocolate” by Snow Patrol is when I turned 25, when I flew and fell. “Under the Wire” by Carbon Leaf reminded me that we can all be redeemed, even if the freight train really is headed nowhere—for now. ”Astair” by Matt Costa is of my sister, always, as is “New Hampshire” by Matt Pond PA. And Leonard Cohen’s “Ballad of the Absent Mare” is my father and me driving south to Topsail two summers ago, when all I wanted was to lay my cheek against his chest and weep and ask him to piece me together again. ”Playground” by Seeking Homer might have set me upright, if my father couldn’t.

And “Lay Your Head Down” by Keren Ann was me dancing my way back to life, even if I danced alone, in my beautiful little apartment in Van Ness, in my underwear and t-shirt, across the cold, hardwood floor, laughing, dipping my hips and clapping my hands, practically shouting out her words, scaring my new kitten, and thinking, “I will never have this again.”

Because, we don’t—not really.

And so these songs represent what we’ve had and lost, what we’ve captured and what we’ve let go.

I used to want my mother to play her songs again and again for me—I wanted to keep hitting repeat.

But, with a tsk-tsk head shake, she would lift her chin, give me a wry, coy, beautiful smile, and tell me, “No, honey. Move on to the next song.”