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The new theory: not to praise too much, lest the child lose her inner

sense of what pleasures, the listening tuned inward.

In silence before sleep, looking up to her ceiling, four years in her

mind, she says: someone is telling the story of our life.

I see her great-grandmother in her brown eyes, in her roil of curls.

I don’t know who it is.

In the woods of her wander, she.

They will be telling it our whole life.