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No other band has had quite the same impact as the four lads from Liverpool. Over the course of eight years and more than a dozen albums, the...
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The Eighth DayLOCATION: My Apartment , São Paulo, BrazilYEAR: 1999TAGS: Eight Days, BeatlesPUBLISHED: July 23, 2008I come back from school and take off my uniform because the heat even in the early evening is stifling. I want a glass of Dona Neusa's limonada, so I pad off barefoot into the living room, relishing in the coolness of the wooden floor against my warm toes. I hear the strains of forgotten generations' music filtering through the house and I can barely stifle a groan. Dad's playing the Beatles again. Mom is off studying for her MFA in Berkeley, and she's left my father, who is stubborn to the nth degree, to his choice of staying in Brazil and consequently in charge of the three of us kids. Besides many a cooking hazard he's suffered us through, he's also dragged us unwittingly into the quiet of his heartsickness. For my brother, he recognizes it through the silence of our evenings, my sister acknowledges it by not asking too many little kid questions, and I know it by the sound of "Eight Days a Week". For Dad, there are eight days a week in her absence. His head is tilted back as he mouths the lyrics, his eyes closed and his hands folded over his stomach. I have heard that music is made by lonely people for lonely people, but it had never rung true until that moment. I can't even look at him directly, so respectful do I feel for the pressing emptiness. I pad continuously into the kitchen and then bring out the pitcher. I nurse the cold glass and welcome the taste of the sour taste of limes pressed against brown sugar, and I welcome in my eighth day.
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