The Burke flat on this treed avenue, where over the early years JB and Ma raised Patrick and me, is similar to Ma Maggie’s on Rachel both in style and general layout, but smaller and more intimate. I take up my sketchpad in an attempt to apprehend with the aid of charcoal lines the facade of the oldest building I know. My focus is the second storey flat with its wrought-iron decor, and gallery, and three exterior doors, ours the one on the right. Admittedly, I’m trying yet again to grasp the evanescent, to capture with filigreed doodles what long ago vanished behind pulled drapes with the cold and howling wind clawing at the door.