Memory is a freakish thing. Barbara’s memories of her life are crystalline and she can bring up images from her childhood with crazy detail. My own are — much to my dismay, particularly as I get older — amorphous as a mist, leaving just a dew of feeling at times, with occasional hints of shadows hidden just beyond true sight. I wish I had the clarity of recall that she has; I know there are a lot of things for which I owe my mother that I will never remember, but even the things I do remember are a pretty long list.