When the strings enter, they don't so much play as unfold . Violins rise like steam from a cup of tea left too long on the counter. There is no rush. This is a memory moving in slow motion.

Oh Mother (Instrumental) Mood: Wistful, expansive, tender, aching

The percussion enters—only a soft brush on a snare, like rain on a windowpane, and a single, deep chime. Not triumphant. Resolute.