I loved her chair.

It was covered with material, olive-green and ribbed, and elasticated in a fascinating way. When you pulled it and released, it snapped back to the chair's frame, shooting out tiny clouds of dust like bombs. I could have done that for hours. Still would.

It was her chair though, and when I picture her in it she is more sombre. It is the evening, when visitors have gone and the room is silent and lit by a single table lamp. The radio is on the adjacent table, sitting like a tiny coffin. She reaches for it; I see her rotating its dial until it clicks and the display radiates a glow. Hearing nothing for a long minute, then, as it warms, the calls of the stations – Hilversum – Luxembourg – Moscow – Third.

I think of the stories they told in the quiet evening that comforted her. Stories I never heard, could never hear now, floating over the air into eventual silence.