I fell to pieces after my mom died, I loved her.

The song delivered its message in a potent kind of esperanto: a lyric about unbearable self-loathing, and a winning mixture of quiet verses and a fuzztoned chorus.

She helped him put his heavy cinqueda onto his military belt. She pulled his cloak—which she had also made—from their sleeping pile. It was made of hundreds of black squirrel pelts stitched together invisibly and lined with bright red ...

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