A model, teaching us to remember faithfully, yet still enjoy life's other colours. What questions I could bare to ask, bare to inflict, you answered with affection, with details, impressions, dailiness, events. Memory is a kind of love. Remembering was substantive and specific. We sat with my tape recorder running.
Memory is a kind of family.
And you introduced me to your nephew, my father as a child. Your head tilted fondly and your glinting eyes gazing off to the side, ani- mated, as though about to join a giddy family, table in the corner of the room. Your attention fixed there, you chuckled and described him, circling the crowded table to nibble food off people's plates-or am I confusing that with how you remember me. Memory is a kind of fusion. You helped me draw the family tree from which I grew, create remembrances where I had none.