"Because I was giving it as information," he said. "Memories are personal. And they're all those things and more besides."

He looked as if he was having a hard time putting it into words; it wasn't surprising, since words were never his specialty. The broom had never said 'you're going to die'. He'd just felt the memory of a scythe, of gathering, of being put to a new purpose, of falling from the ground to fly through the sky.

He'd just been little. In some ways, he still was.

Finally, he came on something.

"It's like emotion. You can't ever really tell someone how you feel exactly, can you?"

He knew he couldn't.

"Not exactly. And that's just part of a memory."