The old radio in Oklahoma still hums when the storms roll in. That’s when she turns the dial — the same one she used to twist when Toby was just a boy sitting barefoot on the kitchen floor, humming along with her to Hank Williams songs. Now, it’s his voice that fills the static. “Don’t Let the Old Man In.” She closes her eyes, and for a moment, she’s back there — flour on her hands, sunlight spilling across the counter, and Toby’s small voice echoing through the house. “Mama,” he once said, “One day, I’ll be on that radio.” She laughed then, shaking her head. “Just promise me you’ll sound like yourself.” Decades later, she still listens the same way — not as the mother of a star, but as a woman hearing her son talk to her through every line. The song fades. The room falls quiet. And through the soft hiss of static, she swears she hears him say it again — “Still me, Mama.” She smiles, lets the radio hum, and whispers to the empty kitchen, “Still proud, son.”
admin Introduction A few years back, I stumbled upon Clint Eastwood’s film The Mule late at night, expecting just another crime drama. But what lingered in my mind long after the…