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Nothing came of my mother's voice. Not a sound from my father. Neither do I recall reasons for her silence or for the timing of Pearl Harbor to coincide with birth. I do not recollect their voices or those of other children when it came to October and I was a fat and winning child, costumed as a pumpkin. There must have been applause I never heard, frame after frame of time gone deaf, a silence so full it spilt over, slippery and pale as the satin binding of my ...