I’ve loved Mozart as long as I have hated razors. Though the two have nothing in common, I needed to delineate between my life before and after Mozart. Watching Amadeus, hugging my legs to my chest, I was immediately enthralled with the music, the period, Vienna and the instruments.

I wanted more than anything to travel back through time to meet Wolfgang Amadeus, whose name sounded magical in and of itself, to understand what kind of person is capable of such fantastic music, but all of my childish attempts at time travel; stolen from the film Somewhere in Time (boy, this is embarrassing), failed.

What didn’t fail was the music. This afternoon, I went to the store and bought the soundtrack to the screenplay Amadeus (no, I couldn’t get it on iTunes); the very one I had owned as a young girl. As I listened with my daughters to the rich sounds, the historic concertos and symphonic harmonies, my eyes filled with tears. I had been right.

All those years ago when I felt the raw emotion move through me from some unseen force; it was sorrow, it was joy, it was something I could only begin to relate to. Years later, an adult with children and a few decades worth of my own experiences, the same raw emotion swept through me. I laughed, cried, and sat in silence in awe, in complete surrender to a voice, a song, a commonality alive between musician and audience, though the span of more than two-hundred years separates us.

If I could do only one thing to honor that connection, it would be to share this experience with my children with the hope they will someday do the same. Together we will keep our own songs, and those sung to us alive. Together, we will maintain some temporary sense of the permanent: Immortality.