Forget Magazine. Remember, Remember, Remember.

It's round here. All open full mouths plastic cups with fat handles gentle sloped corners that invite knees backs open palms.

And it sounds low, soft perpetually tenor. A place where everything is meant to be held licked dropped.

The television is never on. Instead, songs. I listen, above the albino zebra stripped ceiling fluffy carpet like a rabbit's underbelly homemade knitted slippers (pink with blue tassels).

She sings.

And that's round too. Notes pour from lips into bubbles tiny chubby hands grab clutch release. Pull closer. Swallow them. She blows movement into sounds that make legs kick and pink glossy gums show.

I don't know the words. Instead, chose Gogol and a curiosity for Quebecois musicians. Spanish was lost in loud hostels where red ant infestations and tall shiny shoes grabbed more attention. Because glazed boys and lingering girls wanted to hear my accent and I forgot about theirs.

But I understand the melodies, simple swaying rhythms wrote in the spaces between them (him: padded between pillows on the floor, her: cross-legged beside). Passed in the bellies of heavy wholes and lighter halves. Swung back and forth under (sometimes above) the lines. This music runs off scores' pages combines many parts and smudges tones into shades with hazy edges. Neither E flat minor or F sharp major.

There aren't any bar lines. Hers is a fluid staff where breaths are marked in kisses instead of apostrophes and spaces shift each hour day week depending on the windstorm morning phone call from Miami or last night's sleep. Never conducted.

The words, secondary. To sip from this sound translates more than tourist phrase books or night class tests on pronunciation and participles.

It lilts in its own language, never practiced but always flawless. Learned first from an expanding tummy, now in a blue-framed snuggly on spring walks along streets with purple crocuses and labs on leashes.

Taught (for free) upstairs.

Because these songs are his. And she is always learning.

Listen.

Sarah Glen has been waiting, maybe concerned some.