He sat in the worn leather chair, not looking at her but at his note pad. He asked again, "What do you see?"

She shifted uncomfortably, not quite sure why the image had even come to mind. Unable to push it down again into a corner of her memory, she spoke timidly. "I see yellow. It was the color of a cashmere jacket that my mother used to wear in the winter while others donned browns and blacks as should be done after Labor Day. She stood out like a canary among a flock of pigeons." Pausing, she bit hard on her lip.

He looked up at her hesitation and with a nod probed her onward. She noticed his pen move on the paper. Had she said something wrong? Don't worry. Think, she told herself, and the picture came to her once more. This time she could see her mother clearly, her features and gestures the center of attention. Her disgust began to build and with it her need to speak.

"Always perfect," she said, "and always on display. But she put herself on a pedestal. Her fine gold jewelry and shiny blond hair radiant in the bright spotlight she walked in. And if someone's gaze just happened to wander to me, heaven forbid, Mother would all but stuff me in a broom closet until her show was finished."

Her anger was growing and her words came fast and unchecked. He sensed her release of frustration and stopped her mid-sentence.

"How did you feel when she died?" He thrust the question forward, catching her off guard.

Without any conscious thought she spit out her reply, "It was good to see her in black." n