She sang for me too, you know.  It was about a flower sheep. “You live own life ,” she sang, “regardless what they say, you stopped being a child, but you’re still hers anyway, you want to talk about it, but only on your term, and intentionally you will probably hurt her; how to deal with all her and her authority, and then sudden there it is, this day.. that dreaded day your mum dies, the day you are let go, the day you inherit characteristics, that you once hated in her so; that sharp wit, the angry face, they will soon recognize all these things in you, and hopefully also that other side, the kinder side, the soft one, but only time will tell if you inherited that too. The dreaded day you mum dies, the day that makes all other days a matter of time and pain. That is the day you will never be a child again.”