Naomi is quiet tonight. I'm pretty sure she thinks too much as I do, though I can't tell for sure. I've never heard her speak a word. Never seen her face, not counting the time I found a faded image of her in a yellowed and fragile newspaper clipping from the time it happened, a black and white stain of a photo showing a plain woman, around fifty, graying hair in a loose bun, without so much as a hint of a smile. We have a meeting of the minds on occasion out here in the twilight on the old porch. She's known me since I was born. I feel her sadness. Her regret. Poor Naomi, my friendly shadow. She's been dead for seventy-five years, and the poor thing is still just as woeful as the day she drank that concoction of Folgers and arsenic and died in the east bedroom of the house.
(excerpt from the prologue of Angels In a Jar)