I can’t do much more than to sing you a song

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David stood and held his hands in front of him. “Today is the 50th anniversary of Birmingham Sunday,” he said solemnly. The rest of the Friends meeting sat quietly. Some closed their eyes. An old lady with a frizz of white hair stared vacuously at the opposite wall. David pensively pulled at his long gray beard and muttered a few words about mortality. When he sat, the silence continued.

A man in jeans shifted in his seat, leaning forward and folding his hands.

After a few minutes, Lane stood. Between chewing his own gums, he sang a few bars. “And the choir kept singing of freedom.” His wattle wagged with the vibration.

Two or three raised their arms and twinkled their fingers.

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