1. Because I was listening to Morning Becomes Eclectic on my way to a meeting and Gillian Welch came on.
  2. You played her album for me the first night you took me home. It was the first time anyone had taken me home.
  3. It didn't occur to me it might be dangerous to get in your car until I was already in the passenger seat, when I remembered you were a stranger.
  4. You helped me buckle my seatbelt. That's how I knew I was safe.
  5. Later, when we loved each other, we would sit in that car on snowy nights, parked outside your apartment, and listen to "Time (the Revelator)" and Leo Kottke and old tapes from your summer camp. We didn't need to go inside because we were happy where we were.
  6. Our first night, I didn't know any of that. I didn't know how to scrape ice off a windshield, or the first thing about bluegrass music. I didn't know the ways in which time could be revelatory. I didn't know myself.
  7. Gillian rounded into the second chorus. The traffic still wasn't moving. I turned the radio up. In the static silence around the song, I could hear the room they recorded it in.
  8. That's who you are to me. You're the sound of silence on the record. You're the room I was recorded in.