If this sounds like a sad book, it is. It is slow and melancholy. The writing is at times overwrought, saturated with detail. But it is also poetic and at times whimsical. As her primary source, Kate consulted a portfolio of poems and letters her father had written to her mother. This, along with the cover photo, suggests a love story. But if it is a love story, it is a fractured one... So we get the sense, as we read, of things missing, forgotten, unsaid. We might be looking at a kiss, but what we are really seeing is a gap... Did I enjoy the book? There is a scene, towards the end, where Kate and her ill mother convince a neighbour to allow them see inside her house. The place is immaculate: with white carpets, a gleaming utility room, fresh-baked cookies. But when they attempt to peek into one of the bedrooms, the neighbour declines... But in Mulgrew’s book, she shows us all the rooms. We look closely at every dust mite, every toenail. I walked right in and wandered around, touching things. I wanted to keep looking.