You are our lived memory, our certain memory. Our living memory. You have remembered for us, generously, openly, without demands upon us. 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.