| I am six years old in the back of my mother’s car
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| And I will be seven in December
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| She will be gone by the beginning of next spring
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| And I will be left to remember
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| To remember
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| I ask my little questions and she laughs a little laugh
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| But she won’t tell me where we’re going
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| She looks in my eyes with her eyes in the mirror
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| And says, «Some things you’re better off not knowing»
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| Not knowing
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| But I don’t know what her voice sounds like
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| I don’t know what her skin feels like
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| I only know what it might feel like
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| When a mother holds her daughter
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| When that mother knows she’s leaving this life
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| Leaving this life
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| She’s left with that reflection of me at six years old
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| And I have her eyes in the mirror
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| Well, she and I, we are defined by what we have lost
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| Don’t you wonder whose loss is dearer?
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| Dearer
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| She doesn’t know what my voice sounds like
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| She doesn’t know what my skin feels like
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| And I only know what it might feel like
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| When a mother holds her daughter
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| When that mother knows she’s leaving this life
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| Leaving this life
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| And I don’t know what her voice sounds like
|
| And I don’t know what her skin feels like
|
| I only know what it might feel like
|
| When a mother holds her daughter
|
| When that mother knows she’s leaving this life
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| Leaving this life
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| Leaving this life
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| Leaving this life
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| Leaving this life |