My little iPod is a treasure. The size of a large postage stamp, it clips onto a sweatshirt or slips into a pocket. It holds most of my collection and keeps a charge for hours.

But the music it provides is nameless, faceless. It arrives via iTunes or a thumb drive. A bit comes from CDs but none of it, absolutely none, from vinyl. I have records, scores of them, and at one time I had a gizmo that would translate them to digital files. But even that music becomes anonymous once it’s assimilated.

One doesn’t sit and listen to music while staring at a CD cover or the tiny image of one I see on my iPod screen. What will never be the same again is the visual dimension of music, the way the album’s cover art became a part of the listening experience — became part of the music itself.

I’m taking these and other albums from Dad’s collection home with me. Not just for the music — but for the memories.