Mom looked after him with that special fond look she gives to things that are slightly foolish and very lovable. She smiles, and her eyes look as if they can see back into her memory, into all the things that have gone into making a person what they are. With Dad, I think she looks back to when she knew him as a student, when he must have been serious and forgetful and very kind, the way he still is, but young, which he isn’t anymore. With me, I know her memories go back to all sorts of frustrations and confusions, because I was never an “easy” child; I remember that I questioned and argued and raged. But her look, for me, is still that same caring look that goes beyond all that.

— Lois Lowry, A Summer to Die