"Here," she says, bringing me a book we'd just inherited on Michelangelo. "Read me the words."
"Uh," I manage, trying to figure out where and how I'd start.
I flip to an image of La Pieta.
"Who is that woman?"
"That's the man's mother." Carefully sidestep religion -- check!
"What's she doing?"
"She's holding her son . . . Does she look sad?"
"No."
"Does he look sad?"
"No."
"What does he look like?"
"He looks like a bunch of clay."
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