Great music is recognizable by anyone. It makes my heart leap, my breath come in short bursts, afraid that I will mask some sound with the smallest whisper of air.
Chauncey knows this. He stops, cocks his head to the left and looks at the television. The tempo picks up, the volume soars, then the words are barely audible and my eyes ache with the passion and the need to cry that is so great I cannot.
I am paralyzed by this moment.
I am watching Pavarotti, one of those little gifts I keep stashed away just for me to watch when I need to be reminded of the perfection that abounds in my world.
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