I've been thinking about a passage in this book.
The narrator recalls that, as a young girl, she was obsessed with a particular song. When no one was around, she played it over and over on her boombox. She sang along with her eyes closed, cradling a pillow. She kept the cassette cued to that song, eventually wore out the tape.
Baby, baby, never let me go...
Years later, she realized she had deliberately ignored some of the lyrics. It was about lovers, not infants. She had skipped over those phrases to recast the song and maneuver her meaning onto it.
She had imagined infants, not lovers.