by Emily James Dzordzoe Noamesi When the girls are asleep, the sounds come back. The neighbors clinking corona lights into the recycling bin after a long afternoon, the hum of the air conditioning that keeps shutting on because of a cracked bathroom window, the dog scratching the throw blanket to get it set for her to lay. The girls are asleep, and now there are sounds, and I’m leaning into my husband’s arms on a tufted couch, his index fingers rubbing my back. The tears come