Out of synch, she squeaked more than an octave above the rest of our voices, like a bird chirping against the low background rhythm of waves. The 9th grader transformed our familiar routine into something new and cheerful. Her voice so fresh.

There’s music for the heart in the imperfect; sweetness in a moon three days past full, no longer round; crunchy happiness in the batch of fudge sauce that was left on the burner too long.