The Voices of Angels

By Kirby Wright

She waltzes into the kitchen while her boys are disciplined in their rooms. She swings open the fridge to see if she needs milk. She tries figuring out which son’s getting it by the pitch of the scream. “I’m sorry, Daddy,” she hears as leather smacks flesh with heartbeat rhythm, “I’m so so sorry!” That’s the older, she thinks. Dramatic contralto. The younger? Pure mezzo-soprano. Voices break through redwood to echo down the narrow hall. She sees choirboys singing at gothic cathedrals in London and Rome. “The voices of angels,” she whispers, shaking the milk carton.


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