There are two kinds of parents: those who bring you up with stories of their childhood, and others who act like they never had one. My mother told me everything: how her family chilled a watermelon during the summer by dropping it down a well in the morning and retrieving it at dinner, and of evenings spent in rowboats watching plankton glow in the dark. I knew she put on singing shows for her relatives, that her best friend was the daughter of the man who made her shoes, that she ate ice cream for the first time at five. Her father dropped dead from a heart attack at a train station; she loved her nurse more than her mother. My mother was filled with stories, and she'd tell them in clear, precisely chosen English, her eyes black as wet stones.

On the day I returned home from college, my mother told me about her brother.

"He was a very talented musician. A drummer." She laughed. "The girls really went for that, especially on an island where most men like to fish.

"He studied with that American, Buddy Rich," she continued. "Isn't he famous?"

I nodded, vaguely remembering a name from a television show.

My mother tapped a beat with both her index fingers on the kitchen tabletop. "But my brother's talents were not just limited to drums. He loved all music. When I was a little girl, maybe six or seven years old, he taught me this melody, which he had me sing over and over again. Even at that age I could understand the beauty of the song."

She broke out into her trembling soprano, the thin, silvery notes melting into one another like snowflakes on a fingertip. She watched me listen. Her voice strained, reaching for a particularly high note.

"You get the idea," she said, clearing her throat. "So, after I memorized the song completely, my brother sang an accompanying melody, and it became this beautiful duet. I loved being with him. We would sit outside on summer evenings and sing in the dark. Just us and our voices."

"You and Uncle Kahei? Or was that Uncle Goro?" I asked.

"Neither. His name was Kazu. He died," my mother replied.

I had never heard of Kazu. My mother was from a large family, and there had been so many deaths (a sister who committed suicide, a brother hit by a car, a half brother killed by stomach cancer) that I was never able to keep straight who had died. I was no longer surprised at being surprised by my mother's stories, small bombs set to explode at some disconcerting point.

"Tuberculosis," my mother added. "Everyone died of tuberculosis back then."

We sat in silence. My mother remained dry-eyed but her momentum had slowed. "Go on," I prompted, and she continued:

"Many years later, after your father and I had come to America, I went to the opera. The Metropolitan Opera Company was performing Don Giovanni. The sets were so impressive and the costumes were so complicated. At first, I thought the opera was just a busy spectacle. But then the characters Don Giovanni and Zerlian began signing our duet."

My mother began the melody again, her voice softer now. "Vieni, mio bel diletto," she sang, her mouth carefully shaping the Italian. "Io cangiero tua sorte. Andiam, andiam, mio bene, a ristorar le pene d'un innocente amor." This time she hit all the high notes.

"It's called 'La ci darem la mano,'" my mother informed me, after finishing. "'There we'll hold hands.' Duettino. That's Italian for little duet."

"I see."

My mother made a little sucking noise in her mouth, trying to extract something left over from lunch. "I've got tickets to see L'elisir d'amore tonight. It's a preseason benefit with Pavarotti. I'm going with Mrs. Murata."

Mrs. Murata was a college friend of my mother's who made a fortune opening a chain of take-out sushi shops in Manhattan called Sushi Yes! My mother had introduced her to the opera.

"Front-row seats," my mother continued. "So when Pavarotti spits, I'll feel it."

"That's nice," I said.

"Maybe I'll teach you my brother's part and we can sing together."

I shook my head. "You know my voice stinks," I said.

My mother nodded. "Your voice is terrible but you have perfect pitch. A duet is still possible."

"I doubt it, " I replied.