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The Charango
On the devastating power of music and violence.
I remember the sweat made his dark skin glisten like smooth river stones and his soft snores sounded like the low rumbles of an incoming heat storm. I see him in Tarija, Bolivia: He shares pan and queso de cabra with his dying mother in the morning, kisses her goodbye, and takes the bus into town. Back in the states, my parents wrangled Seby and I into the family minivan every Sunday and drove 20 minutes across town to the gated retirement community where Mrs. Dobson, our piano teacher, lived.
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