Little Purple Pansy

"Little purple pansy with a broken head
You were very pretty, I'm so sad you're dead..."
I sang pitifully to the "Little Purple Pansy" tune learned in Primary, looking at the pony pack I had just purchased from Macey's.  It had met with a misfortune, tumbling from would-be-careful hands.  One of the flowers, in the fullness of bloom, had broken its neck, the heavy head hanging down, held on by the slightest attachment to the stem.  Looking sorrowfully at the lost flower life seemed so fragile, so delicate that it could be so instantaneously destroyed and so deceptive that, but for the break, the flower still looked healthy and alive.
My sister, sitting beside me in the car allowed a mournful silence to pass before saying tentatively,
"Quentin L. Cook's middle name is Lamar.."
I gave her a look suitable to such a random statement and replied, "I like grapes."
"You smell like old people...and soap."
"My dad was a piano mover."
"Dragonflies!"
"Oh, oh fireworks, lovely!"
Laughter seized us both.  "Only you, with only me, could have a conversation like that!"