"Tell me about your mother." His knees were against the bottom of the bed, stretched back against the soft comforter.
She twisted around to look at him. "She's was extraordinary. Really."
"And you could really tell that to anyone."
She glanced up at him, placed a thin white hand on his chest and sighed. "She cried when she got angry. And she used to play records on August evenings. You know the ones that sound like velvet? And she'd let me fall asleep on the old armchair. She'd pull open all the windows and dance with my father."
He pulled her closer into him; letting her continue.
"On the darkest night of the year she'd fill the entire house with floating candles and we'd sleep on the floor. She could draw anything you asked. Like you. She used to draw pictures on little piece of paper and tuck them into unlikely places. In saucers and braided into my hair."
"She sounds like you."
"Oh no. She was so much braver, and more daft. When she died, well, Dad felt that he had to fill both of their places and then he got confused. He didn't know who to be anymore."
He kept his mouth tight shut. She was lost.
"Her name was Pandora. She cried when she got angry."