Coming home with Dvořák

Dvořák was playing when I came home in the rain, and for a moment I thought of a kitchen I have not visited in years. I could almost picture the little table by its window. Nothing in the music explains that association to me; it is simply where my thoughts went.

Later, with dry sleeves and the lamps on, I listened again. The kitchen had gone, replaced by the room I was sitting in. I like that a familiar piece can hold these different places without fixing them in position. What I bring to the listening keeps changing, too.