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From the author: Sometimes music is playing right in front of us. What does it take to hear it?
Mom was on her knees, arms wrapped around me, crying on my chest, apologizing. promising. Never hit you again. Used to be when she knelt she was as tall as I was standing, and she’d bow her head to cry on my shoulder. Now I looked down and petted her the way you pet a cat. Mom didn’t mean it—sometimes she just didn’t know what else to do, and hitting was the thing that came easiest. And she hit like a girl, not the way Pop had; she didn’t have the strength to slam a kid into the wall. Or the...