A voice is a medium. A familiar voice takes me somewhere I thought had been permanently closed to me. On Christmas Eve I heard Norah Jones singing somewhere, and her voice carried me back to a highway in my childhood.

That is because both my parents liked Norah Jones. They often played her in the Passat. Dad in the driver's seat, Mum beside him. We sped down a stretch of highway. I watched the needle on the speedometer climb slowly and fall back quickly. Golden light surged towards us. Was it afternoon? But when I remember many similar scenes they all contain this golden light, and so it cannot be trusted. It never truly existed. Romanticised. Processed. On the highway we created wind. Now I see it striking the windows like flowing water, forming little vortices, the kind of lines the Impressionists liked to use. We passed many vehicles, especially lorries carrying pigs. Every time we passed one, Mum and Dad would call my name at the pigs. Hello, Zhonglun! Zhonglun, straighten your back. Stop smacking your lips. I called their names too. I watched with exceptional concentration for the next pig lorry so I could call out their names first.

Norah Jones—I did not understand then what was good about her. I only thought she made me lazy, made me want to lie on the back seat like a single grape. I had not started growing yet and could stretch my legs out straight. I did not like the Passat, though Dad said its German-made steel was very hard and made him feel safe. I liked cars with sunroofs, cars where you pressed a button and the sky flowed in through the glass. I could put my hand outside, and then my head. With my head out, I could fly down the highway.

Mum—I could see only the back of her head. She let her crossed feet dangle in front of the passenger seat. She was always languid too. She knew how to enjoy that golden, untrustworthy light. Her skin was very pale and elastic. People always said she had beautiful skin. Many years later, people would say the same of me. They did not know my mother had better skin than I do because they did not know her, because she has been dead a long time, and because it grows harder and harder for me to recall the details of her, and so I can see only the back of her head. Her body swaying gently with Norah Jones.

And tonight Norah Jones's voice helps me remember her, because a voice is a medium, and perhaps in a moment I will see her face in the Passat's rear-view mirror, her eyes. At the same time she will be able to see me because in a mirror we will look at each other, because that is how a mirror is: absolutely fair in the universe. Mum, I will not avoid your eyes again. Over these ten years your face has kept changing. You are a concept. You are all women at once. But at this moment I want to see you clearly, and so I sit up straight.

There is mist on the rear window, and in the mist the signature I have been practising. I always want to write my given name and surname in one continuous line. When will I be able to write in a scrawl? I am wearing blue-black sandals with Velcro straps. I have sat up straight. I lift my head. Golden light surges towards me and blinds me for a moment, like a fog of happiness. Then it slowly thins, and I can make out the view beyond the windscreen: the greenery along the highway, the white dashed lines leaping like skipping ropes, the cars and pig lorries, the skies. Now everything is clear except you.