Tinna was my imaginary friend, captured on audio tape by my father in the 1950s. “Ginna’s a good girl. Tinna’s a bad girl.” On the bus coming home from work this week, the sun knifed into the south-facing windows. A teenaged boy with a severe visual impairment sat in the row in front of me with his parents. I heard him complain, “The sun’s so loud. So bright in my ears.”
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