Birdsong

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By hombrehompson

The music almost kills me today.

It is a childhood memory. The song that would play as my father hunted and brought local wildlife back to the garage. It would play as I cried for my mother, begging her not to go to work, terrified of spending time with this hulk of a man.

Today, when that song comes on the radio again, I can smell that garage. Hear those birds.

My tears almost cause an accident on the motorway. When I pull over onto the hard shoulder I sit for twenty minutes, thinking about my mother.

 

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